The Legend of Sydney and Nigel
by katia1
Summary: NOW COMPLETE! Sydney and Nigel finally get around to tying the knot. Could some impromptu relic hunting and a few uninvited and possibly undead guests distract them? Maybe. But nothing on earth can come between them...part of the K and A shared universe.
1. Chapter 1

**This is the sequel to 'The Night of the Stag' - thanks so much for those reviews! - and a prequel to Tanya Reed's story 'Megan,' although all can be read separately. Part of the K and A shared universe. Pleeeease review :)**

**Disclaimers: I don't own the characters from Relic Hunter. The references to the legend of Tristan and Iseult are loosely based upon my (brief!) reading of the 12th century text by Béroul, and the commentary on Cornish relics by Joy Wilson. The rest belongs to me. Please do not reproduce it in any form without my permission.**

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_The Legend of Sydney and Nigel_

_By Katy_

'So, Sydney - if you're not wearing white, what _are_ you going to be wearing?' asked Nigel.

Nigel watched his fiancé intently as she steered confidently down the narrow, hillside road that twisted spectacularly through the mountainous, forested and rain-sodden New England landscape. The car was going rather fast, he felt, but he had the utmost faith in her abilities – Nigel was _almost_ confident they wouldn't go spinning off the road.

'Not that I mind what you wear,' he continued, disguising a gasp as they veered particularly close to the edge. 'I mean, you'd look wonderful in anything…or in nothing!' He shot her a cheeky, sidelong glance.

Sydney thwacked him on the knee with her free hand, not taking her eye off the road. 'I'm not marrying you naked, Nigel!' she retorted, mock anger betrayed by a smile. 'I'm going to wear something interesting, stunning, and, err, eminently suitable for the whole… wedding err, thing.'

Nigel narrowed his eyes, glancing down at the slender hand that was now hovering, and twitching slightly guiltily, over his thigh. 'You haven't chosen anything yet, have you?'

The honest glimmer in Sydney's eye was more than enough of an answer. 'I've ordered a few outfits in my size to be delivered to the hotel today,' she admitted. 'I'll select something special, I promise.'

Nigel grinned, always pleased at his increasing ability to find chinks in Sydney's nigh-infallible image. 'Well, I can't really blame you,' he conceded. 'We only got back from Venezuela three days ago, and then there was the whole affair with the um, 'Stag Do,' and the Pilgrim Fathers relics. But you've still got plenty of time to decide on, err, something 'you'.' He winced, recalling Sydney's usual time-consuming reticence in the selection of dresses.

'Yeah,' said Sydney ruefully. 'And Claudia arrives this afternoon! If _she_ finds out I've not chosen yet…' Sydney's convivial, wide eyes, once again conveyed more than enough.

'Oh dear,' sighed Nigel, with a sympathetic cringe. 'This will definitely be classified a 'fashion emergency.' You might even be dragged back into the city for a very urgent shopping spree! I take it she's picked her bridesmaid's dress?'

'Yup - she's got, err, seven, I think she said. She just couldn't decide!'

'Seven!' blurted Nigel, thrusting his hand back through his hair in horror. 'What does she intend to do? Wear them all at once or keep changing? At this rate, tomorrow will resemble a Paris catwalk more than a wedding!'

'I have no idea what she intends to do!' confessed Sydney. 'But she was so excited when I spoke to her on the telephone; I didn't have the heart to complain. Weddings and Paris catwalks are two of Claudia's favourite things, and a combination of the two…'

'Claudia's idea of heaven!' finished Nigel, with a little, ironic laugh. 'Weddings are not quite your idea of heaven, though, are they?'

Sydney smiled through thin lips. 'I never saw myself as the blushing bride in white, that's for sure.' Her grin broadened. 'On the other hand, showing all my friends and family that I've finally worked out who 'Mr. Right' is, and want to spend the rest of my life with him – now, _that's_ a bit different. I can't wait! And I could hardly turn you down when you proposed, could I?'

'Sorry,' he said quietly, recalling a beautiful starry night two years ago, when he'd dropped down on one knee, on a spotless, white sand beach, and asked Sydney to be his wife. Granted, this was not a holiday island but an isolated, godforsaken sandbank in the middle of the South Pacific, where they had been dumped by an irate rival relic hunter. And, yes, the tide had been coming in fast.

Nigel had been pretty sure they were both about to drown, but the characteristic 'we're about to die' speech, which he'd delivered so eloquently on that fateful night, had taken on a life of its own. It may have been fuelled by a fatalistic, romantic impetuosity, but it swept them _both_ away to isles of sublimity that no tide could ever reach…

'I wasn't really thinking about the long-term consequences,' admitted Nigel, the recollection of that incident causing his stomach to clench with a mixture of ecstasy and dread - in addition to the lurching caused by the current continuous swerving of the car.

'You know I would have accepted you, wherever we were! But it was so beautiful and romantic – I'll never forget that low-hanging, Polynesian moon!' Sydney all but purred with rapture as she recalled the lustrous gold crescent, reflected in Nigel's fearful but ardent eyes, as he looked up at her imploringly. 'Besides, _I_ never thought we were going to die.'

Nigel shared a little, knowing smile. 'You never do, Syd. I'm glad you're always right!'

'I'm not so sure I _always_ am! I just hope I have been right about this wedding venue. I came here a few years back for a conference on Minoan culture, but I just haven't had time to check it out again since Karen booked it for the wedding. I remember it was wonderful, though – Carraghmount Castle was moved, brick by brick, from County Waterford, Southern Ireland, by a motor millionaire in the 1920s, before the Wall Street crash. Its origins are mediaeval, oh….here we are.'

Still with one hand on the steering wheel, Sydney accelerated the car through an enormous ironclad gate. The opening was flanked by two formidable, castellated gatehouses, each two storeys high; both roofs were surmounted by a pair of large, stone lions, their jaws frozen open in mimicry of earth-shattering roars.

At the end of the drive, tucked beneath the American mountains, was Carraghmount Castle. With her high facade, and soaring towers, she stood every bit as proud and austere as she had done, in various guises, for over a thousand years in her native Ireland.

'It's amazing!' Nigel's tone was hushed and reverential. 'It looks mainly like a 19th-century rebuild, but look!' He pointed to a spartan, keep-like square tower, with castellations and narrow, arrow-slit windows. It marked an asymmetrical end to an otherwise neatly structured mock-Gothic façade, distinguished by large ballroom windows, and cone-topped turrets. 'That funny looking tower at the end could date back to the early mediaeval period!'

'I thought that too. I'm glad you like it,' said Sydney warmly. 'I know you like 'modern' in your home life, but this place is just _alive_ with mediaeval legend!'

'It's wonderful,' gushed Nigel, and then paused as an alarming thought struck him. 'It's wonderful for a _visit_…but it is rather, um, _large_ for a wedding. How many people have you invited?'

'Oh, just a few family and friends!' Sydney's beguiling, opened lipped smile suggested otherwise. 'They'll all be surprised to find _this _place amongst the pine forests of New England, huh? Oh, this is where I wanted to stop.'

Despite being only halfway up the drive, Sydney pulled the car onto the wide grass verge, and turned to observe Nigel as he spotted something else she remembered from her previous visit, and that had clinched her believe he would love this place. It was an ancient cross, standing about six foot high, crudely hacked out of granite. His fingers were already on the door handle, and in a second he was out of the door, desperate for a better look.

'A real Celtic cross!' he breathed, his feet squelching across the sodden, muddy turf. 'They're found in remote parts of Ireland and Cornwall, but I never thought I'd see one here!' Irresistibly drawn, Nigel pushed his glasses on his nose, thrust his face in close and his traced his fingers over its rough, cold surface. 'Christianity flourished in Ireland and in the western extremes of what would become England and Wales, even when it had foundered in the post-Roman east of the islands. This is from that era,' he murmured. 'It could date back to the sixth century.'

'That old?' questioned Sydney, although bowing to his superior knowledge of this particular topic. 'Apparently it was bought over with the castle… what is it?'

Nigel's brow was furrowed in thought, as he traced the remains of an intricately carved pattern, resembling interlinked knots, down the stone shaft. 'I'm not sure it was. I don't think this cross is _Irish_ Celtic - it lacks the characteristic circle that intersects the branches of the Cross and the granite is of a variety that I'm fairly confident was found only in Cornwall.'

'So you think it is from the west of _England_?'

'I think so…Syd, take a look at this?'

Nigel was now crouching at the foot of the cross, pulling some dripping stems of grass away from the front of what appeared to be an inscription. The script was ancient, nearly rubbed away completely, but had apparently been made visible by a recent attempt to clean it – or, possibly, the morning's heavy rainfall.

'I didn't notice _that_ last time,' admitted Sydney. She squinted to read the timeworn words, which she identified as in an early form of mediaeval Latin.

''_TRISTANUS HIC IACIT MARCUS FILIUS CUM DOMINA ISEULT': _Here lies Tristan, son of Mark, and his wife Iseult.'

Nigel turned to her, eager with the boyish enthusiasm that a spark of mediaeval myth always kindled within him. 'Tristan and Iseult! He was a 6th Century Prince of Cornwall, and she a Princess of Ireland. Despite their two kingdoms being at war, they fell in love and their affair spawned a saga with more twists and turns than the road to this castle! It was one of the legends my father told me, when I was young.'

'I know the tale,' said Sydney, smoothing her hands speculatively over the partially eroded monument, following a natural urge to seek out secret hidden compartments. 'The origins of the myth, if I recall, were lost in the mists of time - like so many of the best stories! I wonder if there is any chance that this cross could be authentic?'

'That would be a superb wedding present… what is it?'

Sydney had looked up suddenly as a soft but deliberate rustling sounded from the woods; a squirrel scuttled up a tree. A gut feeling caused her to straighten and poise her hand above the knife that still nestled in her calf-high leather boots, despite her otherwise casual garb of a tight, pencil-cut green skirt, and matching jacket. Hairs pricked on the back of her neck: there was nobody there, but something told her they were being watched…

She swiveled viciously at the sound of a polite cough, only to find herself confronting a red-liveried butler, carrying a silver tray adorned with two glasses of champagne.

'Excuse me Madam, sir,' he began. 'Carraghmount Castle would like to welcome the happy couple. Would you like an aperitif?'

Sydney instantly suppressed her suspicions, while quietly admitting that, for some reason, she was glad she had brought her knife. She took a glass with thanks, and handed one to Nigel. Relieved at the apparent false alarm, he also acknowledged the man gratefully, before asking him: 'Do you know anything about this cross?'

'I'm afraid not, sir,' said the butler mundanely, 'except that it was transported from Ireland in the 1920s with the castle and all the other relics on the estate.'

'But I don't think it's Irish!' insisted Nigel. 'And this inscription about Tristan and Iseult - somebody must know something?' His preoccupation caused him to take an unthinking swig of his champagne; he choked slightly and grimaced, wondering why anyone gave you such a pungent fizz at 11 o'clock in the morning.

The butler regarded him serenely. 'One of our costumed tour guides ought to be able to help you. I will find someone suitable to answer the inquiries of such eminent guests. While I am doing so, would you like to see your rooms?'

Sydney smiled enthusiastically and said they would, despite her pervasive curiosity, and the tug of Nigel on her sleeve, that urged her to instantly find out more about the cross. Still, she mused, it would be nice to see the bedroom, and she could think of a few things that might entertain them until they could find out more…

……………………………….

Not half an hour later, a tall, blond Englishman strolled into the grand, wood-panelled castle lobby, his tartan travel bag in one hand and a large hatbox in the other. Putting down his luggage, he donged loudly on the service bell at the desk, completely oblivious to the leather-jacket-clad gentleman, who was peeping at him doggedly over the pages of last Tuesday's copy of 'Le Monde.'

A neatly dressed, bespectacled brunette emerged from behind a heavy oak door to serve at the counter. 'May I help you sir?'

'I'd like to check in, please,' said the newcomer. 'My name is Preston Bailey. I'm here with the wedding party.'

'Of course, sir,' smiled the woman, opening a heavy, red appointments book. 'Ah, yes, here you are: Mr. P. Bailey. You must be the bridegroom's brother?'

'Yes, that's right!' said Preston, straightening with importance. 'I'm pivotal to the whole proceedings. Obviously, I have a lot of crucial, brotherly duties to perform…huh?'

Preston's spiel was interrupted by a loud, indignant snort that sounded just behind his shoulder. He turned, startled, to find himself face-to-face with a particularly fiery looking man, nearly as tall as he, with closely cropped, curly hair and two days growth of roguish stubble on his chin. The receptionist, assuming that they knew each other, said 'One moment, Sir,' and disappeared back through the heavy wooden door to locate Preston's key and find somebody to carry his luggage.

As soon as the door slammed behind her, the second man shoved his face close into Preston's. 'So! _You _are the brother of the _stable-boy_ who presumes to marry my Amazon Princess!' The words were drawled in a lugubrious French accent

'Excuse me?' asked Preston, more bewildered than offended. 'I _am _Nigel Bailey's brother, if that's what concerns you. What did you just call him?'

'A stable-boy!' said the Frenchman forcefully.

The edges of the older brother's mouth twitched in amusement. 'A stable-boy, huh? That's a new one on me! Can't say I can imagine Nigel mucking out too many muddy stables, but if you mean that the delightful Sydney Fox orders him around _like_ a stable-boy – well, you could have a point there!' He favoured his conversant with a wary smile, unsure whether to offer him a handshake. The Frenchman, however, introduced himself anyway.

'I am François!' he said, jabbing himself aggressively on the chest. 'I am the man who Sydney Fox really loves, and I have come here to make sure she does not make a terrible mistake.'

'Oh,' said Preston, repressing a spark of alarm: if this was one of Sydney and Nigel psychotic rivals, _his_ life could be in danger - maybe he should be running for the hills? He decided, bravely, to try repelling him gently.

'Well, good luck to you, old chap,' ventured Preston. 'But, I'd have to say you probably have as much hope as the Devon Ladies Cream Tea and Cricket Association have in regaining the Ashes from Australia! Don't you think just about _every_ fellow this side of Outer Mongolia has given it a good batting?' He leaned forward confidentially. 'Believe me, I would have made a play for her myself, given half a chance. But, the amazing thing is, the lovely Professor really has been bowled over by old Podge! And well, you know, he _is_ my brother…'

'Yes! Nigel … Podge… whatever you call him, _is_ your brother!' cried François, brandishing a finger in the air accusingly. 'And I assume he has asked _you_ to be his Best Man?'

'Um, well…' Preston hesitated. He certainly had _not_ been asked to be Best Man. However, he _had_ selflessly stepped in to fulfill the role of Nigel's bachelor party organiser and, seeing as his brother's archaeologist friend, Joel, still had not emerged from the forests of Peru, there was a small chance that a request _might_ come his way. He swallowed and answered half honestly. 'You could say I play a rather important role in these ceremonials, yes.'

'So!' spat François with an angry delight. 'You _are_ Best Man! You could not conceal that from me - you are as weak as your brother! That would mean that _you_ have the wedding rings, huh?'

'Um, not on me,' stuttered Preston. The Frenchman fixed a steady glare on him, as Preston clanged the bell again, this time in slight panic. Did this strange foreigner _really_ want to rob him, right here in the hotel lobby? 'I don't have the rings… or anything valuable!' he pleaded, looking desperately towards the closed door in vain hope of rescue.

'Hey! He doesn't have the rings!' The female voice rang out with a feisty authority. 'What the heck do you think you're doing?'

Both men turned, and their jaws dropped, at the sight of the curvaceous blonde standing in the doorway, dressed in tight jeans, and an impossibly low-cut and skin-hugging orange blouse. In her left hand was a neat, black suitcase. Her right fist was rested, in a no-nonsense fashion, on her hip.

'I asked you a question,' repeated Karen to the instantly captivated Frenchman. 'What the heck do you think you're doing? Preston, are you okay?'

'Quite…quite fine,' said Preston, straightening his shoulders and attempting to evoke some unruffled dignity. 'But I think this man wants to rob us!'

'I do not!' cried François. Before she had time to speak, he dashed for Karen, seized her hand from her waist, and kissed it. Karen, despite her wariness, given little gasp. Her steely blue gaze wavered a little, but she did not smile. Snatching her fingers away and turning, she subtly drifted her hand across her luggage, confirming the safety of a little pink purse, tucked in a pocket on the front of her suitcase.

'I did not come to rob you, Mademoiselle!' protested François, his tone seductive, even as his eyes followed her furtive actions. 'I came to stop an injustice - to prevent a beautiful woman from marrying the wrong man! But I see Sydney Fox is not the only beautiful woman here today…'

Twisting back to face him, Karen's lip curled in disgust. 'Oh, I see. You reckon Sydney should marry _you_, huh?'

'Maybe,' said Francois, shrugging in a noncommittal fashion. 'Maybe not!' he reached again for Karen's hand. 'But she must not marry that English whelp!'

Karen whipped her hand away so fast that François thought she was going to slap him. Indeed, she was just on the verge of doing so, when the wooden door finally opened, and the receptionist returned, accompanied by a burly concierge.

'Hi,' said Karen, coldly sweeping François aside, as she confidently swayed over to the counter. 'You must be Martha? I'm Karen Petrusky - we spoke on the telephone?' The hotelier acknowledged her warmly. 'This man is _not_ with our party,' said Karen emphatically, indicating François with her head.

'Is that so,' said Martha. She turned to the Frenchman sternly. 'I'm afraid the whole castle is booked for a private wedding party all weekend. I'm going to have to ask you to leave.'

'It is okay,' blurted François. 'I go!' He shot Karen a yearning gaze. 'Adieu, Mademoiselle… we meet again soon!'

'Go away, you French creep,' hissed Karen. 'Nobody is going to spoil this weekend for Sydney and Nigel!'

With that, she turned her back on the unwanted rival, casting a warm smile at Preston as he departed, relieved and a little confused, with the concierge. Despite her confident veneer, it was with relief that Karen confirmed, once again, that the little pink purse in her case - and its precious cargo of two wedding bands – was still there.

……………………………..

'This is a _very_ big bed,' whispered Nigel. 'It _almost_ seems a waste that we're only using this tiny spot in the middle!' He extracted himself from Sydney's tight embrace, leaning up on one elbow and brushing light, loving fingertips down her the tender skin of her chin and throat, tracing the line of her curves through her snug-fitting black top.

Sydney laughed breathily, reaching up and sweeping a tumbling lock of chestnut fringe from his brow. 'The hotel did think it was a little irregular that I wanted to spend the night _before_ the wedding with you,' she teased, 'But, hey, I never did like convention! Besides, after your little performance at your bachelor party, I daren't let you out of my sight!'

'I don't have a problem with that…umph!'

To emphasise her point, Sydney grasped the back of his hair and pulled him back down for a hungry kiss. Nigel reciprocated enthusiastically, pulling her close with a grip that revelled in her silky, tumbling hair, and clutched needfully around her waist, melding into the sweep of her back.

After a minute of soaring towards heaven, Sydney broke away with a knowing giggle, rolling from underneath her pink-faced and very excited fiancé. 'If we're going to tour the property with an elderly volunteer guide in a moment, I need a _cold_ shower,' she stated.

'Oh, um, excellent notion,' said Nigel, nodding seriously as he mastered his flaring passions. 'I'll just, err, put my shirt on, then… I really _do_ want to look around the castle! And the guide just might know about the cross, or even the whereabouts of more clues about Tristan and Iseult. My father would have been so proud if we could find something to shed new light on their tale…' The sentiment caused Nigel's eyes to mist over with a very different form of affection.

Sydney, who had paused to run a comb through her hair, regarded him fondly. 'I hope so,' she said, wistfully happy. 'I've got a good feeling about this weekend – and maybe it will be memorable in more ways than we might have imagined.'

She slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her, leaving Nigel to button his shirt, yank back on a grey-blue pullover, grab a book on ancient Egyptian calligraphy from the top of his still-open case, and settle back down on the bed. It had been an interesting read so far and, after popping his glasses back on his nose, he eagerly thumbed to the page he had left it at.

After absorbing just a few lines of text, however, he was unexpectedly distracted by the sensation that somebody was watching him. Indeed, somebody was!

Nigel's focus was drawn to a Pre-Raphaelite-style portrait of an early mediaeval King, a ferocious, bearded, goliath, his axe savagely raised in the throes of battle. Nigel stared - he had noted the portrait admiringly when he came into the room and wondered who it represented, but he could have sworn that the rabid combatant had then looked only towards his rival: a younger, blonde Knight, armed with a fragile, silver sword. Now the warrior was looking out into the room - directly at him!

Nigel shrugged - he must have remembered wrongly, he told himself. Nevertheless, he felt uneasy. It was then that he heard the voices from the bathroom…

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

After tearing herself away from her future husband, Sydney had listened to the latch click, and then paused in front of a sink and a large gold-rimmed mirror. Splashing water on her face she mused on a sunny irony: since the attraction between her and Nigel had boiled over from simmering attraction to the joyfully blazing fireball that was their relationship, it had occasionally - just occasionally - been difficult to keep their minds on the more labourious aspects of relic hunting and study! Now, at their wedding party, the tug-of-war between ardour and the hunt was still at play and, at that moment, the promise of an unexpected relic hunt appeared to be winning…sort of.

She reached for a tissue to dab away some smudged mascara - then stopped dead. In the corner of the window of the first-floor bathroom - or rather, in its reflection in the mirror - she detected the tiniest glimmer of movement.

Sydney turned in a flash and hurled up the heavy, sash window frame with a screeching grind. The voyeur swore in French and nearly lost his grip on the drainpipe. Sydney snarled and seized him by the collar, hauling his body towards her.

'_You_ again?'

'Sydney!' pleaded François. 'This aggression, it is most unbecoming! I have come to tell you… I still love you! Remember Panama? The Peruvian jungle? The heat! The passion! You saved my life - surely you can never forget?'

'I _have_ forgotten, François,' she hissed, lying only slightly. 'Everything!! I love Nigel, and I'm marrying him tomorrow. No other man will ever hold a candle to him - especially one who gets itchy feet every time he sniffs the value of a relic!' She tightened her iron grip, so her victim was on the verge of gasping for air. 'Now, you have two options. Either you climb down that drainpipe right now and head straight for the State border in one piece, or I hurl you straight down onto those rose bushes and then jump down on top of you to make sure gravity has done its work!'

'Sydney…' began François pleadingly, then broke off, catching the vitriolic fervour in her eyes. Sydney Fox wasn't joking.

'Okay, okay… I understand, Sydney. I will go!'

She snatched away her hold on him as viciously as she took it, and he began to descend. Once just out of her reach, though, he paused.

'I understand everything Sydney,' declared François with a romantic flourish of the arm that did not cling to the drainpipe. 'You are scared, are you not? _You_, the great Sydney Fox, are scared of admitting your true feelings!'

Sydney rolled her eyes in disbelief, and slammed the window closed. Her erstwhile lover slid to the base of the drainpipe shouting: 'We will meet again, ma chérie! A bientôt!'

'Sydney? Is everything all right?'

She sighed deeply as she heard Nigel's concerned call. 'Damn,' she muttered to herself. 'He must have heard.' François didn't scare her: he was a harmless and rather charming pest, not a threat. On other occasions, she would have at least heard him out - but not today. Knowledge of his presence, here at the wedding, would upset Nigel a little, even if he didn't show it, much as it had just unsettled her. Still, they had no secrets from one another.

'Oh, nothing important,' she began, opening the door a crack to catch him hovering with his hand inches above the handle, his hair still ruffled and uncombed from her 'loving', and looking slightly mystified. She took him by the hand, and was about to pull him into the bathroom to explain it all calmly as she showered, when there was a knock on the bedroom door.

'It can't be François,' thought Sydney quickly. 'Nobody could run around that fast. It must be the guide.'

'You'd better answer while I freshen up quickly.' She relinquished her hold of her fiancé. 'I'll just be a sec.'

She vanished into the bathroom again. Nigel quickly stole a glance at the painting, to check no more changes were apparent, and then leapt for the door.

Swinging it open with a cheery 'hello,' Nigel registered the sight of an extremely strange little woman. Standing barely five foot high, her hair was braided in a long brown-grey plait, which dangled over her shoulder to the front, reaching beyond her waistline. She was dressed in a plain, dirt-coloured tunic, hewn of a primitive, rough looking fabric, and which swept nearly to the ground. Her eyes were a silvery blue, her skin deeply lined and weather-beaten. Despite this, she did not look that old - fifty, or sixty at most - but she had the air of somebody of great age.

Raising her chin, the woman stared curiously at Nigel, who offered her an uncomfortable half smile.

'Um, are you our guide?' he asked. She said nothing.

'I'm very excited to know all about the castle?' he tried again. 'Do you know anything about the Celtic cross? I think the inscription might be a reference to the legend of Tristan and Iseult…'

He trailed off, wondering if he was making a fool of himself; the woman's eyes thinned into slits, as if she was conjecturing very deeply upon her response. Nigel shuffled his feet awkwardly. He glanced over his shoulder for Sydney but, seeing only the bearded villain in the painting, he was relieved when the woman finally spoke.

'Your guide,' she said slowly. 'Yes. I can be your guide.' Her accent was odd, tinged with an Irish brogue, but she enunciated carefully, as if English was not her first language.

'Oh, good,' said Nigel, slightly relieved, but still wishing Sydney would hurry. He held out his hand politely. 'I'm Nigel Bailey. Very pleased to meet you, I'm sure.'

The woman reached for his fingers, in an apparent recognition of the greeting, but then drew away again quickly, as if he would burn her.

'My name is Brangain,' she said suddenly. 'I will tell you all I know of the castle and the Cross, Nigel Bailey, and the lovers that you ask of. But I must speak with the great huntress, the one they call Sydney Fox.'

Nigel was greatly comforted when the answer sounded from behind his shoulder.

'I've not been called _that_ before, but I guess the, err, 'great huntress' would be me,' interjected Sydney, observing the woman amicably but with great interest. 'It sounds like there are many questions we can answer for each other.'

'I hope so,' replied Brangain, peering timidly into the room. 'There is something, a secret of undying love that has been lost for centuries, that I must beg you to find.'

'There is?' replied Sydney, stilling as intrigue swelled within her. 'Well, as long as it won't interfere with a certain short ceremony in the morning, you've come to the right team!'

Nigel turned with a grin, understanding the impact of what Sydney had just said. Marrying him was even more important than an impromptu relic hunt! Nothing could stop them tying the knot tomorrow. Nothing…

**Thanks for reading. Please review, and I will do my best to get onto that wedding - and a bit more relic hunting - soon! I might even try writing that engagement story if anybody's interested…**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimers: as before.**

**Thanks for those reviews! Shivani - I'll do my best - I like that Nigel too! Next chapter, and definitely the next story will deliver plenty more, I hope :) Lulu and Ivoryrose - as you ask, I _will_ write that engagement story one of these days, promise!**

**Sorry for the slowness of updates at the moment. I'm snowed under with work. Also, hi to all you new writers here. I'll get round to reading and reviewing all your stories soon, I promise. It's great to see the site so lively :)**

**CHAPTER TWO**

'Come! Follow me,' requested Brangain, with a small, entreating gesture of her hand. 'I will tell you all I can.'

'Just one sec.' Sydney escaped out of sight to grab her satchel and slip her knife back in her boot. Wedding party or not, she was glad she had brought all her relic hunting gear. It looked like there was some serious hunting to do, and she had already encountered one unwanted menace…

Brangain led them off down the corridor. They trampled over a lush scarlet carpet, and hurried past stone flagged walls, hung with an impressive collection of 16th Century Flemish tapestries, arrayed with dancing nymphs, club-wielding hunters and frightened deer. Sydney shared with Nigel one of her whimsical, knowing looks, which only _he _understood properly. In a light-hearted way, she was saying 'what's with this woman?' - but, at the same time, Nigel could tell Sydney trusted Brangain.

As much as he was keen to discover more, however, Nigel himself was not so sure what to make of their eccentric tour guide. Hanging back a little, apparently out of earshot, he whispered: 'Don't you think she is taking the whole costumed guide thing a little too seriously? I mean that accent is about as convincingly Irish as Dick van Dyke's chimney sweep in Mary Poppins was Cockney! And nobody had been called Brangain since the 6th Century…'

Sydney, still relaxed, merely raised her eyebrows as Brangain swiveled sharply back to face them. 'Oops,' thought Nigel, and shuffled behind Sydney's shoulder, just in case things were about to get nasty.

Brangrain, however, did not look angry, and fixed Nigel with a calm, penetrating gaze: 'I will answer all your questions in good time. My name, as you guessed, is an ancient Irish one, and I'm proud of it. As for my right to take being a guide seriously, my family knew this castle when it stood proudly on the rocky cliffs of the Emerald Isle, above the Atlantic breakers . My people travelled with it here, nearly a century ago, almost as part of its stone foundations, and now I share generations of knowledge with those who care to listen.'

The levelheaded intensity of this speech, delivered in the otherwise tranquil, ancient castle corridor, sent an unexpected frisson of icy dread shooting down Nigel's spine; it left Sydney feeling oddly unsettled but more and more curious. Instinctively placing a protective hand upon Nigel's arm, she said: 'I'm sorry. We didn't mean to be rude. We're just curious, that's all.'

Sydney trailed off as a terrible awareness washed across the old woman's face. Brangain motioned again with her hand, this time urgently. 'Come! We are not alone…come!'

She started up the corridor at a rapid pace, her long skirts swaying silently, leaving Sydney and Nigel jogging to catch up. Nigel grimaced at Sydney, still slightly disgruntled - what were they doing running from unknown menaces on their wedding trip? - but this time he dared not vocalise his objections. He just hoped it wasn't any of the angry, bearded hunters in the tapestries that had scared the 'old dear' – after the painted menace in the bedroom, it would be too much of a freaky coincidence!

Sydney, also, was now genuinely uneasy: she couldn't help wondering if a glimpse of the shady-looking François had startled the old lady, and deterred her for sharing her secrets. But why had she not discerned his presence - surely Sydney Fox's razor-sharp senses were keener than those of an elderly tour guide?

Leaving the lushly decorated hotel part of the castle, the dark grey, granite walls were unclad except for displays of mounted spears, swords and shields, and the odd freestanding suit of armour. The roof was lower and looming, the windows just narrow slits that rose to a point. Little daylight filtered in, and their moving shadows were cast in the glow of lambent candlelight. It was evident to the relic hunters that they had entered the large, square tower, the oldest-looking part of the castle.

Just past a point where two smaller tunnels peeled off the main corridor, Brangrain finally stopped and turned to them, her lips pressed into a faint smile: 'We are alone again,' she breathed.

'If I may be so bold,' inquired Nigel, 'who exactly did you think was following us?'

'It was another of the tour guides,' she replied flippantly. 'We each guard our trade secrets very closely.'

Nigel shrugged. Fair enough, he thought, trying to convince himself. Some academics were just as possessive their knowledge. He felt slightly reassured when Sydney slipped her hand into his; he squeezed it.

'So,' said Sydney, persuing a particularly impressive crossed display of six mediaeval swords. 'What have you to tell us? And what was it you wanted me to find?'

This time, Brangrain beckoned them close. Her face hovered just inches below theirs, displaying papery-looking skin so white that it seemed to verge on the translucent. Her voice was grainy, hushed. 'You've guessed rightly about the cross outside. It once marked the grave of the legendary lovers, Tristan and Iseult, Prince of Cornwall and Princess of Ireland.'

'I knew it!' said Nigel, suddenly very animated. 'The stone is Cornish, though. Legend has it that the pair died in Brittany, but their bodies were returned by King Mark of Cornwall to his own domain. How did the stone end up in Ireland - before it came here, I mean?'

'The lovers were buried outside a chapel on Lyonesse, the birthplace of Tristan, a Cornish isle beyond the land's end. That ethereal place,' continued Brangain wistfully, 'and all that remained of the lovers, was lost to the waves six centuries after they died. The cross, however, was saved by Queen Tara, a descendant of Iseult's sister, to show the world that her foremother's misdemeanours had been forgiven, if not forgotten. She brought it to the grounds of her castle - _this_ castle!'

'That explains it,' said Nigel. He regarded Sydney, standing with her arms folded, listening intently: the fire in her eyes told him her interest had not diminished.

'How do you know all of this?' she asked.

'You will learn,' Brangain replied hastily, a single finger raised. 'But, I entreat you, first you must hunt! The cross was not the only relic of Tristan and Isuelt that Tara saved and brought to this castle. Now I ask you to seek the truth I am sworn never to utter, but that I want the world to know. According to the legend, Tristan and Iseult fell in love when they both drank from a magic goblet. This was not true! They loved each other purely, and fell in love as only true lovers do - through coming to realise that they had found the other half of their soul! Despite everything they were forced to do later, they were true to each other. The proof of this lies here, in the old part of the castle, hidden in its most sacred heart…'

The old woman's voice trailed off, as fear slithered once again across her aging countenance. 'I have said too much,' she husked. 'I must go… please, take care! There will be dangers!'

'What dangers?' inquired Nigel, now slightly exasperated. 'I thought this was just a peaceful tour of the castle!'

No answer came. Moving swiftly as a deer, Brangrain slipped behind Sydney, sidestepped a suit of armour, and disappeared soundlessly up a dark, side passage.

'Wait! Aren't you going to tell us anything more?' Nigel darted to the corner of the walkway and looked hopefully after her, but Brangain was nowhere to be seen.

'She moves bloody quickly for a senior citizen,' he muttered. 'It's all a bit much! Promising to show us the castle, and then shooting off, so we have to do all the work. I suppose it must be time for her tea break!'

'I guess,' said Sydney, non-committed. 'But you want to find this thing, right?' She knew even as she asked this, that it was a rhetorical question.

'Of course I do,' said Nigel, glancing once more after Braingain. 'Where do you think she meant by a sacred place? The chapel?'

'It's the obvious place to start,' said Sydney. 'Let's see if we can find it. Which way first?'

'How about that spiral staircase?' suggested Nigel, pointing to a narrow, twisting stairwell at the end of the corridor.

'Why not?' smiled Sydney. She motioned with her head: 'Let's go!'

They climbed down the narrow flight first, arriving at its bottom in a foursquare, vaulted undercroft. It was quite empty, and there were no initial signs of any hidden compartments.

'The relic, if it's still in the castle, is going to have to be concealed in something solid.' Sydney pointed her torch into the gloomy nooks and crannies of the basement. 'It will be inside the stones themselves, or a piece of furniture. Otherwise the builders would have discovered it when they moved everything in the 1920s… hold on, what's this?'

Sydney traced her foot over the outline of a heavy stone trapdoor embedded in the floor at the corner of the room. In the middle, a single iron ring was all that indicated that it ever opened at all. She passed the light to Nigel, who held it at her shoulder as she gave it a strenuous tug. Nothing happened. Nigel popped the torch in a niche in the wall and, sliding his arms around her waist, added his strength to hers. After several minutes of pulling, and much puffing and noisy effort, it came up abruptly, sending them flying backwards in a heap.

Sydney landed on top of Nigel, the back-thrust of her elbow impacting somewhere soft and squidgy between his legs.

'Oooops!' Sydney hissed through her teeth in sympathy as she shifted off him quickly. Nigel moaned piteously, as she grabbed the torch and flashed it on him. 'Nige? Are you okay?'

'Fine…fine.' Nigel's voice was strained as he clutched his injured manhood. 'I'm in an immense amount of pain, but I'll be fine in a moment. I just hope this won't spoil my performance on our wedding night…'

'Sorry,' grimaced Sydney, looping an arm around his shoulders and brushing back his hair consolingly. 'Better?'

'Mmmmmm.' His discomfort began to dissipate as he revelled in the sensation of her fingers, which stimulated tingling tendrils of soothing pleasure, flittering down the back of his neck. 'Much better…'

He paused as his bliss took stronger possession of his senses than his pain. 'There, um, might be other parts that need a quick massage in a minute?'

Sydney slapped his back playfully and jumped to her feet as Nigel sighed inwardly with vanquished desire, wishing he'd pretended his agony was prolonged. 'Later… we've got work to do, remember?'

Even in the dim light, Syd could see him pout up at her. 'It _is _our wedding party…' he pleaded.

'Tristan and Iseult? A hidden mediaeval relic? Come on, Nige… it will be worth taking a bit of time out to find it.'

'I suppose so,' he conceded, gingerly clambering up and thinking serious, professional and sobering thoughts. 'Let's see what's down the pit.'

They both peered down cautiously as Sydney shone the torch into the dark, cavernous space. There was no sign of any descending staircase or ladder; an eerie white light flickered ominously upon the remains of rusting chains and shackles that dangled limply from the wall.

'This must be the dungeon,' murmured Sydney.

Nigel inhaled sharply, silently. For a second - just for a second - a roguish face leered at him and out of the darkness. Ginger facial hair flashed in the torch light, a glimmering axe swung. Nigel blinked once, hard. Then it was gone.

A glance at Sydney's calm face was all it took to confirm she had seen nothing. 'I'm losing it,' thought Nigel desperately. 'Or else…'

'Let's not go down there,' he whispered with a shudder. 'There is nothing sacred in that godforsaken place…argh!'

Nigel, already jumpy, leapt a good few inches in the air as Sydney sprang to her feet, and hurtled towards the spiral staircase.

'What is it?' he squeaked.

'I heard somebody!'

Sydney was already at the top of the steps and, spying a boot disappearing around the bend at the end of the corridor, gave chase. The flee-er was too swift, though, and the options too great. The castle contained hundreds of creaking doors and twisting stairwells and passages. Before she had the chance to gain on them, the shadowy figure had disappeared up one of the many corridors. She heard a door slam, but she knew not which one.

'Did you see them?' demanded Nigel, gaining on her as she stalled at the corner.

'Yeah, sort of,' sighed Sydney, tucking back away her knife, which she had drawn in readiness. 'I didn't get a good look, but I think I know who it might be. I'm not sure you're going to want to hear this, though. 'She knew it was time to tell Nigel her suspicions that the voyeur was, once again, François - and of her earlier encounter with her rival and former lover.

Nigel turned a shade paler. 'Oh God,' he muttered. 'If _you _don't think I'm going to want to hear it, I'm definitely not going to want to.'

Sydney's heart sank. She'd wanted to be the one to break the news to Nigel about François - did he already suspect? Her fears were allayed, however, when Nigel added with a cringe: 'Please don't tell me you saw a giant man with a bushy beard and an axe…'

'Uh…no,' said Sydney guilelessly. 'Why? Who did _you _see?'

Nigel drooped his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'Oh, God - maybe I'm still suffering the after-effects of the bachelor party! It was that portrait in the bedroom: the one of the beaded warrior. I swear, when we arrived, he was looking into the scene in his portrait and then, when I was reading, his eyes were piercing straight through me!'

'Oh, Nigel! Paintings often play that trick.' Sydney shook her head in amused relief. 'It was probably a deliberate device of the artist.'

'I know, I know… but then, just before you heard the footsteps on the stairs, I swear I saw him again - leering up at me from the basement….nnnng!' Nigel shaded his eyes in frustrated embarrassment. 'I'm never going to let alcohol addle my mind like that again!'

'Hey,' said Sydney kindly. 'Maybe you _did _see something - a mirage, a trick with mirrors… or maybe something more inexplicable. I'm not so sure I _don't _believe in ghosts!'

Nigel blanched further still. 'You don't really think it _was _a ghost… do you?'

'I didn't see anyone in the dungeon, Nige, so I can't tell you,' shrugged Sydney. 'But that sure as hell wasn't who I think _I_ saw on the stairs.'

She paused, taking a deep breath as he regarded her earnestly: he _was_ still completely oblivious to her former lover's presence in the castle. 'The guy on the stairs was probably François,' she confessed. 'It was him I was talking to in the bathroom. I was going to tell you, but…'

'François! In the bathroom!' spluttered Nigel. 'How the hell did he get in there? Or out again?'

'He never quite got in,' admitted Sydney, rolling her eyes. 'But it wasn't through want of trying! I sent him packing, but I don't think he's quite left yet. Don't worry, next time I see him, it will be him, rather than my words I'll be mincing. I won't let it spoil things…'

Nigel stood for a moment, raising his fingers comtemplatively to his bottom lip, as he digested the information; then his countenance melted into a genuinely mirthful giggle.

'I'm glad you can see the funny side!' said Sydney, somewhat abashed. '_I_ didn't laugh when I saw that pest…'

'Sorry, Syd,' smirked Nigel, betwixt his laughter. 'It's just that it's, oh, so typical! I know you didn't ask him, but it's just so perfectly, um, you! Even at your wedding, you're instantly plunged into a wild goose chase relic hunt, and one of your old boyfriends is here to try and scupper everything! This might not be a traditional white wedding, but it certainly will be a proper Sydney Fox wedding!'

Sydney, by this time, had certainly seen the funny side - and remembered another reason that Nigel was the man she loved. She gently dropped her forehead to his, lifting her hands to cup his face.

'I love you, Nigel Bailey,' she whispered, suppressing his laughter with a brief, moist kiss. 'Any other man would have overreacted, and been hideously jealous… I knew you'd understand!'

He held her close against him, his arms tight around her. Sydney joyfully savoured the accelerating beat of his heart, and the inevitable way his lips were drawn back to hers, capturing them slowly, arousing a sensual pleasure that flooded her senses like liquid velvet. Yup, out of all her conquests, she was definitely marrying the best kisser…

'You know I'll never be jealous anymore,' murmured Nigel, finally pulling away. 'I trust you with my heart, as well as my life.'

Sydney hugged him tight, resting her chin on his shoulder. 'Thanks for being the one, Nigel... the only one. Thanks for waiting all those years it took me to realise!' The last words tripped from her tongue with an ironical humour.

'It took no time at all!' Nigel's warm breath pleasantly caressed the nape of her neck. 'Now we've been 'together' and 'together' longer than we were 'together' and 'apart', if you know what I mean. I still think it's a miracle I got this far at all.'

'Now you're being an idiot!' retorted Sydney, snapping her mind back to their present business. She unravelled herself from his embrace. 'We'd better get a move on. If that was François, we don't know what he has heard - if he gets his hands on a relic, we certainly won't see either of them for dust! Let's find this relic, and then I suppose we should go greet the guests sometime before midnight…'

'Good plan,' affirmed Nigel with a nod. 'Okay, down the spiral staircase drew a blank. Let's try up.'

'Fine,' said Sydney, and started off back to the stairwell.

…………………………………………….

The next room they reached up the winding steps was accessed through a grand, round-arched door, its surrounding stonework embellished with zigzag patterns. It opened to reveal a vast, airy chamber, larger and taller than a good-sized detached house. Mottled light filtered from small, high, stained-glass windows and glittering candle lamps, the largest conglomeration of which were suspended from the ceiling on a circular candelabra, wrought in iron. Ragged flags hung from the ceiling, fraying edges and fading colours belying a once radiant glory. Amongst them, Nigel discerned the green, white and orange tricolor of Ireland, and the striking white upon black cross of the ancient kingdom of Cornwall.

At one end of the room was a high, wooden balcony, resembling a mediaeval minstrels' gallery, populated with several suits of armour. It was not accessible from the floor, where Sydney and Nigel now stood, only through a single door in the wall at its rear. Below it was a raised dais; upon this, adorned with a simple wooden cross and white cloth, was an altar.

'The chapel!' Nigel grinned impetuously.

'Yeah,' said Sydney, her voice betraying a hint of uncertainty, as she cast her eyes over the vast interior and up to the gallery, with its inanimate metal occupants at the far end. 'It looks that way. The relic, if it is here, is going to be hidden in something like the altar, something that wouldn't have been dismantled.'

'This certainly seems old enough,' said Nigel, peering closely at a crude, stone font, located by the entrance. 'I wonder if there are any concealed, coded locks, or hidden compartments?'

'There could be,' replied Sydney, still uneasy. Her gut twinged as the tiniest of movement from the balcony caught her eye. Sydney looked up: nobody was there, just the shadows of the flags, wafting in the draft, and three suits of armour.

Sensing no immediate danger, at least from anything in the environs of the font, Sydney left Nigel to investigate and cautiously made her way to the middle of the room, scanning the historical artifacts that surrounded her and which appeared to come from all over the world. A pair of Indian forearm swords hung beside a Zulu skin shield, above which were displayed six Mongolian curved sabres arranged to resemble the spokes of a wheel. A long back riding crop with a creamy, ivory handle, carved in the image of an Egyptian cat, particularly caught her eye. Momentarily abandoning her main mission, she slipped it out of its holster: could it be authentic?

A brief squint at the finely-honed handiwork told her it was a late 18th-century French imitation – interesting, and fairly old, but not 'real.'

She exhaled slowly, grasping the whip handle in her palm. Something wasn't right about this place, she could tell, although she couldn't yet put her finger on it…

Shutting her eyes, Sydney cleared her mind of complexities and clutter, and focused upon her niggling doubt.

As the truth struck her, her eyes flew open. 'I've got it! The chapel in a 12th century castle would never be this big! This amount of space would have been needed for meeting, feasting and sleeping - this is the Great Hall!'

Nigel looked up from the font where he was kneeling, frowning slightly 'Of course - I should have thought of that! The alter and this font must have been moved here from elsewhere - not that I can see anything remarkable about it. And I was wondering about all this armour. Its hardly very holy, is it?' His gaze drifted around the room admiringly. 'My God, Syd! Look at that!'

Nigel jumped up and headed for what he had spotted: a finely crafted, long bladed, mediaeval broad sword, hung high on the opposite wall below the balcony. Its silver blade shimmered in a rainbow spectrum of colours, catching the light of the tinted windows. 'It's beautiful,' mused Nigel, stretching out his arm to reach the weapon even though he was still several metres away.

Sydney turned to follow him but her instincts lurched again, and her focus flew back to the gallery. She gasped: rather than three, there was now _four_ suits of armour. What's more, the figure on the end was both holding an axe, and edging, unsteadily forward! Sydney's mind worked in a flash - the toppling axe was headed for a rope, the rope which secured the metal candelabra from one side, and which was currently suspended above the head of…

'Nigel!'

Sydney flung herself forward, under the plummeting metal monster, and propelled them both clear with the sheer momentum of her body. She landed heavily on top of her fiancé, her legs astride of his stomach and her hair thrown forward, drowning him in her silky locks as she knocked the wind from him completely. The candelabra impacted on the floor with an explosive crash, missing their toes by inches.

Sydney propped herself up, one hand on Nigel's shoulder, and swept back her hair with a swift, fluid motion.

'Are you okay?'

Nigel's face had turned a deep shade of beetroot purple. Devoid of the puff to speak, he gave an affirmative nod.

The English accented retort cut jarringly through the air: 'Good God! I knew it! I just knew it!'

Sydney and Nigel both looked up towards the entrance from the staircase to see none other than Preston Bailey, and an absurd looking elderly man, dressed as a mediaeval jester. The latter was wearing a three-pronged fabric hat in a particularly bawdy and synthetic shade of lime green, from which dangled some yellow, plastic bells.

They were both staring, their eyes bulging, at tomorrow's bride straddling the groom in a particular compromising position, still grasping the curling, French whip. 'I just knew it,' repeated Preston, his surprise transforming into a snigger. 'I see the lovely Sydney does cater to your peculiar ' tastes', Podge…'

'Shut up, Preston!' snapped Sydney, throwing down the riding crop, and pointing to the fallen candelabra. 'Look at that! Either this place has got some serious 'health and safety' problems, or somebody is trying to kill us.'

The jester was now goggling at the heavy, fallen candle-holder in disbelief. 'Well, I'll be damned,' he drawled, in a strong Texan accent. 'How the heck did that happen? You two shouldn't really have been here without a guide, you know?'

'We had a guide,' wheezed Nigel, staggering to his feet. 'She deserted us!'

'_She_?' questioned the jester. 'You must mean Vera. She is our only female tour guide. I didn't think she was on the rotor for today - she is a zany old thing. She loves dressing up and playacting all mysterious, telling ghost stories. Maybe the suit of armour was one of her practical jokes gone horribly wrong…'

'If it was, I'm not laughing!' Nigel was still rather pink in the face. 'I hate to say it, but I agree with Sydney - somebody could be trying to bump us off!'

'I'd better call the manager,' said the jester, now looking far from jovial. 'In the meantime, it would probably be safest if we all left this part of the castle.'

'Maybe that would be best.' Sydney, after the initial shock of the moment, had decided that they should keep complaints of attempted murder to themselves - no point jeopardising a hunt unnecessarily! She shot Nigel an inappropriately contented little smile; unfortunately, Preston read its meaning nearly as quickly and clearly as his brother did.

'Ah ha,' he thought. 'Those two are after something interesting. And Sydney's telling Podge that they'll be back to finish the hunt as soon as possible. I wonder what it is they're after?'

'Let's go then,' said Nigel, who had regained his composure and received Sydney's message, loud and clear.

'Syd,' he whispered as they followed the jester and his brother from the room. 'Do you really think François was trying to kill us…me?'

'No,' she replied, quiet but sure. 'The thought never even crossed my mind. I've got a feeling that maybe it had something more to do with your bearded friend. That suit of armour appeared out of nowhere… and they both had axes. It can't be just a nasty coincidence.'

Nigel's brow furrowed with doubt. 'Surely François is the obvious suspect…?'

'You've got to trust me on this one, Nige…'

Before Nigel could vocalise his reservations further, Sydney had rushed forward to inquire of the guide: 'Excuse me, do you know anything about the portrait in the honeymoon suite? The one of two Knights in battle?'

'Eh? Oh, I know the one. The owners of this castle over the year have always become obsessed with rumours of the connection with Tristan and Iseult. That painting is actually quite new, by the 19th century English artist John William Waterhouse, and it portrays the battle between Tristan and Morholt…'

'Of course!' jutted in Nigel, suddenly enthusiastic. 'Morholt was an evil Prince of Ireland, who tyrannised and enslaved the Cornish people. Tristan challenged him to one-to-one contact on a remote island and, after days of battle, he mortally wounded the Irishman with a single blow to the head with his sword. It cleaved Morholt's helmet in two and a section of Tristan's blade embedded itself in his victim's skull!'

'You know your stuff, young fellow!' The guide was impressed.

Preston was less enamoured. 'Please, don't encourage him! The tragic thing is, I think he's always believed most of this rubbish really happened… Nigel, shouldn't you stop wittering on about nothing and go and greet your guests?'

'Shut up Preston! It isn't rubbish. You know fair well that most of these myths have their foundation in reality. No doubt _you_ want to get rid of Syd and I so you can search for the relic yourself, not that you _could_ find it… oh, what's the use?' Preston was favouring his brother with a particularly patronising, sympathetic smile - and deliberately keeping out of kicking range of Sydney.

'I thought nothing of the kind!' sneered Preston. Catching a killer stare from the 'bride,' he hastily changed the subject. 'Anyway, I'm supposed to pass on a message that Karen has gone to pick up the other bridesmaid from the airport. What was her name? Claudine? Tell you what - she can't be any prettier than Karen. That is one attractive woman!'

'Her name's Claudia,' said Nigel stroppily, as they crossed over into the slightly more modern part of the house, with the tapestries. 'And she's very pretty too, but you won't have any more chance with her that you will with Karen. Claudia's taste in men _has_ been dubious over the years but, if memory recalls, she likes them to at least have a backbone!'

'Now, look here Podge…' began Preston as Nigel halted defiantly outside the door of the honeymoon suite. Fortunately, the rest of his retort was swamped out of hearing by Sydney's loud and gushing thanks to the guide.

The jester shuffled away, and Nigel and Preston glared and mumbled at each other. They both opened their mouths to argue again, but Nigel got in first:

'And, before you ask: no! You _can't_ be best man! Joel _will_ get here and, if he doesn't, there are plenty of other candidates…'

'Don't you worry,' responded Preston airily. 'I have no desire to get too involved in this wedding party. I don't know what went on back in that chapel, but I've already met a psychopathic Frenchman who seems to have it in for you!'

Sydney, who was just unlocking the door, froze: 'You saw François?'

'Yes I did! He tried to rob me of the rings - of course, he assumed _I_ was carrying them, and then made it perfectly clear that his intentions towards Nigel were nothing less than murderous. Poor Karen was terrified - I don't know what would have happened if I hadn't been there to protect her!'

Nigel, although he didn't quite believe his brother's version of events, looked worried: 'Syd - hadn't we better make sure he's gone? He can haunt Preston all he likes, but Karen and Claudia? And the other guests?'

Sydney flung the door open, groaning internally and wondering why things were _never_ easy. 'I'll take care of it - everything will be just fine! François' bark is definitely worse than his bite.' She turned to the elder brother. 'Preston - why don't you go down to the lobby, have a drink and wait for Claudia and Karen to get back. Just in case they need, err, protecting. Besides, I doubt the concierge will be able to cope with _all_ Claudia's luggage - he'll need a hand!'

With that, she grabbed Nigel by the shirt sleeve and yanked him into the bedroom, breaking the deadlock in the glowering contest he was then sharing with his brother. 'I've got other plans for you, Nigel… see you later, Preston.'

The door slammed in Preston Bailey's face, leaving him feeling lonely and strangely bereft, shuffling his feet awkwardly on an imitation Louis XIV rug.

The sound of laughter filtered through the closed portal, followed by the joyful, agonising creaking of a mattress as two bodies landed heavily on the bed.

'Why did Nigel always get all the luck?' he lamented silently. Not only was 'Podge' marrying the world's most beautiful woman, he was on the verge of finding _another_ priceless relic – one connected to an enrapturing legend that, like so much, their father had chosen to share with his younger rather than his elder son. As ever, he, Preston, did not even know what was up for grabs yet!

'Ah well,' he muttered. 'At least nobody is trying to kill _me_.' He turned on his heels and trotted off down stairs, in search of attractive blondes in need of chivalry and good, old English charm.

**Thanks for reading. Please review and I'll update ASAP.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimers: as ever.**

**Thanks for the reviews. Sorry that this chapter has been a while coming, and that it's not very, um, romantic for a wedding story. I've not been feeling very romantic this week, let's put it that way! Oh, and sorry for meanness to Nigel. Its all in the name of setting up his heroic triumph, honest. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. Pleeeeeease review.**

**CHAPTER THREE:**

Sydney plunged down onto the bed, one hand firmly grasping Nigel's open collar, the other bunching up the shirt in the small of his back. His arms seized her hungrily as they sunk into the mattress, both hands creeping down until they rested dangerously near her backside - at least, they were in a place that was _once_ dangerously near her backside. Now, as Nigel still had to remind himself after so much time, things were different. She was his lover, his fiancé. He was _marrying _her tomorrow…

After some impassioned clasping, and a little wriggling for a comfortable position, they ended up facing each other in the middle of the enormous bed, caught in the crack between the now displaced pillows. 'What's our first move, then?' asked Nigel, his mouth poised tantalisingly close to her dewy, parted lips.

'Our _very_ first move?' Sydney's breath ruffled a wandering strand of his fringe that flopped over his left eye. 'To make sure your brother knows just how much of a good time we're having in here…'

Swishing out of reach of his expectant lips, she flung herself heavily onto her back, and bounced up and down several times to the rhythm of a steady beat, laughing lasciviously. The mattress creaked incriminatingly loudly.

'Oh, good notion,' said Nigel, clambering on top of her with a cheeky grin. 'There's no need to fake it, is there?'

'Nigel!' hissed Sydney, feigning shock. 'What happened to the sweet, reserved gentleman I once knew? I just want to put Preston off the scent! He realised we were after something - not that he's a threat, but I just wanted to keep the whole relic thing as quiet as possible.'

'Of course, of course,' nodded Nigel, forcing a serious frown even as his focus drifted down to the provocative sight of her substantial cleavage. 'I was only joking anyway…'

'Really?' said Sydney coyly, stretching her arms decorously above her head, her fingers entangling in a mass of luxuriously spreading hair.

Nigel slapped her shoulder playfully. 'Stop toying with me!'

Sydney fluttered her lashes. 'You're the one lying on top of a poor, defenseless female before she's even married! You should be ashamed of yourself, Nigel Bailey!'

'Maybe I _should_ be,' growled Nigel, sliding his hands over both of her wrists, taking her as his captive. His moist lips brushed lightly against the tip of her nose, dusted her cheekbones; his sheer tenderness teased her, aggravating the warm desire that now radiated from below the pit of her stomach.

'You're so beautiful,' he murmured, hanging above her mouth, wanting nothing more than to mould it to his own. 'And here I am, taking advantage of you like this…'

Nigel knew it was coming, even before Sydney let slip a feral snarl; he couldn't resist it any more than she could. A deceptively slender, yet powerful leg hooked itself around his, as Sydney snatched her hands free. Effortlessly claiming hold of his shoulders, she flipped them both over so _she_ was on lying top. Pulling his arms above his head, she pinned down his wrists, much as he had hers. Her full length, weight, and sumptuous curves pressed intimately against him.

'Who's defenseless now?' Sydney's eyes danced with laughter and lust.

'I could fight back,' sniffed Nigel, barely pretending to be indignant. 'But I'm not so sure I want to…'

Easing his face up to hers, as far as he could, he willed on the inevitable kiss; Sydney shimmied out of reach, her open mouthed smile becoming the epitome of denial and torture.

'Oh, come on, Syd,' moaned Nigel, his needs ablaze. 'Or I'll join a Union or something!'

'You're not my employee anymore,' she husked, her breath balmy against his skin. 'Nobody can save you once you're my husband… like nobody can save me from you…'

Her lips were just on the verge of tumbling greedily onto his, when Nigel's gaze bolted onto something located a distance behind her shoulder. His singular desire melted into shocked consternation.

Sydney sat up, releasing him. 'What is it?'

'Oh hell!' Nigel ran his fingers heavily down his face. 'I'm sorry, but it's that bloody portrait again – Morholt is _still_ staring right at me out of his frame - and now he's waving his ruddy axe at us too!'

Sydney twisted her neck and squinted at the portrait. 'You're right, he _wasn't_ doing that before.' She noted, not without concern, that the main subject had now raised his axe directly above his head, as if he wanted to execute the next person who walked by. 'I wonder what his problem is?'

'I don't know!' groaned Nigel, peeping out from between his fingers. 'I'm still hoping that I'm seeing things - but, if his spirit lived on after Tristan killed him, I'm guessing that Morholt must have been pretty annoyed to see his niece in love with the man who killed him. Maybe he's still bitter…'

'Or maybe he just hates lovers…'

Swinging a leg back over her future husband, Syd jumped off the bed and grabbed for a comb and a long, plastic pin to fix up her hair: 'Come on, we've let ourselves get distracted. We need to find out what was behind that falling candelabra and find the relic before Francois gets his hands on it.'

Nigel, despite his distaste for his axe-wielding roommate, silently whimpered with disappointment. 'Can't we just find another room...don't I even get my massage?'

'Later…I promise!' Sydney mumbled through the pin she'd placed in her mouth as she fumbled with her tumbling locks.

'But it could be essential!' Nigel propped himself up on his elbows. 'All that tugging and pulling, and then dodging that falling candelabra - my muscles might cramp. If I can't move tomorrow for the wedding, it would be a disaster! And then, of course, I've got to be, err, fully functioning in all departments for the evening… '

'_Later_, Nige…' Sydney finally popped the pin in her hair. 'Besides, this is hardly the first strenuous relic hunt you've been on.'

'Yes, but it's the first one where I've got to be in a condition to get married the next day!'

'Nigel - Tristan and Iseult? Something which will shed new light on a legend your father told you?'

Nigel sighed, realised he was fighting a lost cause. Reminding himself just how much he _did_ want to find the relic, he refastened the top few buttons of his shirt. Sydney threw her satchel back on, and flung a second torch heavily into his lap. This jolted Nigel into action and, after she turned away, causing him to wince with pain. Had she forgotten _all_ of his earlier misfortunes?

'Right,' barked Sydney, peeping out of the door. 'Your brother has stopped snooping around - let's go check out that minstrels gallery.'

……………………………

'Are you sure Francois couldn't have carried up the armour? Despite your suspicions about our long-dead, Irish adversary, he's still our only, um, solid suspect?'

Sydney and Nigel stood in a high, narrow chamber at the back of the Great Hall. Once an entrance hall, the floors above had long since decayed and crumbled, and never been replaced. The original door to the outside had been blocked up and there were no windows or lights, so they shone their torches into a cavernous space above. There was no sign of a staircase either: the only access up to the back of the minstrel's gallery was by a rickety and aged looking ladder.

'I never thought Francois did it,' replied Sydney contemplatively, 'and now I know he couldn't have done.' She gripped the ladder firmly, and put one foot on the bottom rung. It groaned a little under the strain, but held. 'I'm going to look on the balcony itself, check out if there are any other clues up there.'

She tentatively placed her foot on the second level, which instantly snapped in two with a 'crack' that echoed all the way the high roof above.

'Syd,' Nigel placed a steadying hand on her back. 'I don't think it's safe.'

'No,' agreed Sydney. 'That's my point. This ladder certainly wouldn't take the weight of a man wearing or carrying a suit of armour!'

'I guess not,' conceded Nigel. 'I just hope it takes yours…'

Sydney shot him a grin over her shoulder. 'Just be ready to catch me, okay?'

'Okay.' Nigel puffed and braced himself.

She held firmly on the sturdier edges of the ladder, rather than the rungs, and edged her way up. Testing each rung before she put weight on it, it took some time before she was even approaching the heavy, wooden gallery door. Nigel watched apprehensively from below, the darkness seemingly closing in around him the further away she climbed. It was all too easy to imagine the bearded axeman, looming behind him, his weapon raised on the verge of attack - or, even François, brandishing a knife, finally driven mad by his lust for Sydney. As Nigel tried to swallow his fear and hold the torch steady, Sydney discerned _something_ too - her instincts were on high alert by the time she came in near reach of the handle of the door.

'Okay?' called Nigel anxiously. 'Are you there yet?'

'Fine… I'm nearly there….' Her fingers outstretched, she reached for the handle…

'Brrrrriiiiiing!'

The cheery ring cut through the loaded silence, shattering the tension like a sledgehammer.

'Aaargh!' Nigel yelped as Sydney, steel-nerved though she was, swayed dangerously on the top of the tottering ladder. Gathering her wits in fast, she flung the door open and swung herself onto the balcony, landing heavily on her bottom. She yanked the offending cell-phone out of her satchel.

'Sydney Fox…oh, hey, Claudia. So glad you made it…oh…I will….uh?'

Nigel, peering up from the bottom of the ladder, could just see Sydney sitting on the gallery, holding her phone several inches away from her ear.

About thirty seconds later, she took a deep breath and moved it back close enough to speak.

'Yeah, I'm aware it's a fashion emergency! I'll be there… soon, I promise. We can pick one then. No… I'm not going back to the city. One of these will do just fine… Nigel and I are pretty busy right now. I know it's important… I'll be there, I promise. Give me half an hour, Bye!' Sydney hung up puffing out her cheeks exhaustedly.

'Claudia?' Nigel's questioning call filtered up from the depths.

'Yeah,' called back Sydney. 'We'd better tie up this business as quickly as possible, or she'll hunt me down - to the ends of the earth, if need be! She is on the war path about my wedding dress… or rather, my lack of one!'

'Oh, fair enough,' sniggered Nigel. 'Did she say anything about Preston? I hope he strained his back, carrying in all her things - that will keep him out of our hair!'

'Nope,' replied Sydney, jumping up and assessing her location. 'She didn't mention him…damn - the fourth suit of armour is gone again!'

'Gone?'

Nigel's shout came as Sydney swivelled, detecting movement in the hall below. Standing there was a brown-suited man, with wispy grey hair poking from the sides of his head, his hand raised to his forehead in dismay.

'Oh!' The newcomer had finally spotted Sydney. 'Professor Fox? Please come down from there, I beg of you! I'm terribly sorry about what happened earlier - I'll get to the bottom of it, I promise.'

Sydney smiled graciously, doing her best not to stare at the way the coloured light from the windows reflected shiningly off his bald patch. 'You must be the hotel manager?'

'Yes…yes… please come down, Miss. I can compensate you for the accident with the candelabra but, if you fell from there, the insurance would never cover it!'

'Don't worry,' said Sydney casually. 'I'm not blaming you for anything. I think somebody might have been trying to kill us, anyway.'

'Kill you! Good God - I'm certainly not covered against murder!' His hand moved from his forehead to his fast beating heart. 'Have you any idea who or why?'

'Possibly… but first, I'd like you to answer a question for me. Is Carraghmount Castle haunted?'

The manager paled. 'No… no, absolutely not. This is a lovely place for weddings! Its romantic! It's alive with mediaeval legend, but _entirely safe _for lovers of all varieties…'

Sydney's gut twinged. 'Why wouldn't it be safe for lovers?'

'Oh,' stammered the manager, 'err, no reason. Just marketing jargon, I'm afraid. Anyway, we have no ghosts here, I assure you!'

'No ghosts, huh?' Sydney's smile did not falter, even as her glare hardened. 'Then could you let me know what happened to the fourth suit of armour? The one with the axe that fell and cut the rope?'

The hotelier looked bewildered. 'There was only ever three. There's no way another could have got up here. These three,' he pointed to the three remaining figures, ' - which are authentic pieces from the English Civil War, incidentally - , were assembled from their disparate parts on the spot, when the castle was reconstructed. To get a suit of armour up there in one piece would be impossible! Hank, the tour guide who found you, mentioned a fourth one. But, he's very elderly - and he was a little shaken up by the whole incident.'

'Well, I saw it too. And you still say there are no ghosts?…oh!' A loud ringing interrupted Sydney again. 'Would you excuse me?'

'Claudia! I said I'd be there… Oh, hi Karen. What's wrong?' Syd's resigned smile vanished into a frown. 'Don't worry, I'll be right there…um, yeah, _without _Nigel. Bye'

'What is it, madam?' asked the hotelier, further upset by his client's evident downturn in spirits.

'That was my bridesmaid, Karen… she says the wedding bands have been stolen from the safe in her room.'

'Stolen! I'll call the police immediately… oh heavens, what a day!'

'No! I think I can get them back. But if you see a French guy in a leather jacket, don't let him leave - tell him I'll marry him or something, that'll make him stay…' Sydney paused: François' outbreaks of 'itchy feet,' which occurred whenever he got his hands on anything valuable, sprung to mind. 'Or maybe that won't work. Whatever… don't let him leave the castle! '

Heedless to the manager's protests, she disappeared through the door at the back of the balcony again, and half climbed, half slid down the crumbling ladder, until she was safe in Nigel's arms.

'What is it? Was that Claudia on the phone again?'

'No, it was Karen. We've got a problem.'

'Another one?' Nigel's fingers wove through his hair, his exasperation growing. 'As if being hounded by a stalker and a possibly undead murderer isn't enough! What has gone wrong now?'

Sydney cringed, slightly guiltily. 'Our Aztec gold wedding bands have been stolen.'

'Oh great! That's just lovely! I'm just only we didn't each spend six months worth of salary of them… of course, we risked our necks retrieving them from an Spanish shipwreck in shark infested waters but now, no doubt, we'll be risking our life and limb getting them back again…' Nigel smothered his annoyance and mustered an optimistic, lop-sided smile. 'Won't we?'

'Too right we will,' growled Sydney. 'François is going to pay for this…'

'François? How can you be so sure it's him this time? What if it is our, um, mysterious axe wielding friend… who, of course, you claim is _not_ François?'

Sydney's features set grim and determined. 'Disappearing rings have François' name written all over them – petty theft, not flying axes - much more his style! Now, you head straight back to our room. I'll meet you there as soon as I can. '

'Meet me there?' questioned Nigel, frowning slightly. 'Why can't I come and see Claudia and Karen?'

Sydney chuckled ruefully. 'Because they've got my selection of wedding dresses laid out over _both_ their rooms, apparently! Not that I care for all that 'groom shouldn't see the bride's dress' tradition, but Claudia would freak out if you as much as got a whiff of chiffon before tomorrow...'

'Oh,' shrugged Nigel. 'Fair enough. I've have had enough trauma today, without the wrath of Claudia! I'll head back to the room and, um, do some research or something.'

'Great! You do that…' She pecked him on the cheek - 'love you, Nige,' - and tore off to the aid of her bridesmaids in distress.

Nigel was left alone in the chamber as the door swung behind her; the back-draft wafted swiftly across his face, tousling his hair, then all was still.

The urge to follow her was intense and instantaneous. Despite the darkness and the placidity, Nigel suddenly sensed, once again, he was _not_ alone. He leapt for the door handle. He never reached it.

Nigel was yanked backwards with a much greater force than he had launched himself forward with. As he threw his arms out wide, scrambling to keep balance, the torch clattered to the floor and went out - not dropped, but snatched aggressively from his hand.

He inhaled raggedly, primed to cry out, but his voice snagged in his throat. Then a raw blanket of ice engulfed him, paralysing him completely.

As his mind screamed - 'Sydney!!!! - everything went black.

…………………………………………..

Sydney tapped the back of the door with her knuckles.

'Hey, Karen? It's me.'

'Right with you, Syd…'

Hot on the heels of the call, Sydney heard the latch chain slide. The door opened to reveal a sombre looking Karen, her eyes sparkling with un-fallen tears.

'Sydney,' she began, stepping aside to her boss could enter. 'I'm _so_ sorry. You entrusted _me_ with the rings and I blew it. I feel so responsible for this…'

'I don't blame you, Karen. I'll get them back….My God! What happened here?'

Sydney's jaw dropped as she observed the sheer volume of clothing that filled Karen's sizable hotel room. In one corner, hanging on the front of the wardrobe was the small selection of simple but stylish 'haute couture,' including a sexy, figure hugging black dress she'd particularly favoured, and which she had ordered to be sent over for her consideration. The rest of the room, however, was a sea of white silk, satin, lace and chiffon: wedding dresses, in all varieties of cuts and sizes, were draped across the furniture and hanging from the lights and picture frames. Teetering amidst it all, wearing an indecently short lime-green mini-dress and ridiculously high-heeled matching shoes, was Claudia.

On seeing Sydney, she threw aside the tent-sized wedding veil she'd been examining and, with little squeak, flung her arms about her friend's neck.

'Sydney!!! It's so good to see you - I can't believe that French guy stole your rings! You'll get them back though, won't you?' She pulled away, imploring Sydney that the fun wouldn't be spoiled. 'Finding things is what you do, isn't it?'

'Of course,' replied Sydney, slightly distracted. 'It's great to see you too, Claudia…err, what's going on here?'

A cheeky smile twitched on her former secretary's cherry lips. 'You like the dresses?'

'Yeah,' replied Sydney, still slightly shocked. 'I, err, love them. Where did they all come from?'

Claudia scrunched her nose with joy. 'Oh, you know, I'm a very good customer at several top stores in Paris. We can send back anything we don't use… anyway, this is just the overflow. The _best_ ones are in my room…'

Sydney ran her fingers admiringly across a slim-cut, ivory robe, embroidered with sparkling beads, which was displayed on the bed. 'They're beautiful! But I told you, I'm not going to wear white…'

'Oh, come on Syd,' drawled Karen, relieved at the respite from her worry about the rings. 'Every girl wants to get married in a beautiful dress. You'll looks stunning in any of these. I can't wait to see Nigel's face when you glide up that aisle tomorrow…'

'Listen to the girl!' jutted in Claudia. 'You've got to make the most of this, you'll only do it once…'

Sydney raised an eyebrow slyly. 'Only once? But Claudia, haven't you already done this three times?'

'No fair!' pouted Claudia. 'Each time, I only ever _meant_ to do it once… and it was never my fault when it all went nasty! Anyway, I realise now I've been reading my tarot cards wrong… I shouldn't have married _any_ of those jerks!'

'I did to try to tell you that at the time,' sighed Sydney, kindly. 'None of us wanted you to get hurt…'

Claudia shrugged. 'Yeah, well, you always knew way too much for your own good, Syd… but, anyhow, I _know _I can trust the stars. And, according to my horoscope, I'm going to meet the man of my dreams _this_ weekend!' Claudia positively shimmered with excitement. 'He's going to be tall, handsome and charming - and apparently, I'm going to meet him in a _dark_ place… like nightclub or something, I guess!'

'I don't think there are too many nightclubs in this castle,' commented Karen, shadowing Sydney's quiet sentiments.

'The darkest place I seen so far is the dungeon,' murmured Sydney thoughtfully.

Claudia scrunched her nose again. 'A dungeon! Sounds kind of kinky…oooh, maybe if you catch that Frenchman, you'll lock _him_ up in the dungeon! Is he cute?'

'He's not bad, Claudia… but he _is_ a rogue relic hunter with, err, stalker tendencies!'

'Oh…' Claudia, slightly deflated, sat primly down on the bed between the dresses. 'There is _that_, I guess. I've kinda had it with bad-boys.'

'And there is the small matter of finding him…and the rings!?'

'Of course,' interrupted Karen, sounding unnecessarily chastised. 'I'll just show you the safe…'

It was only then that it occurred to Sydney that she had not yet spotted the safe from which the items had been stolen. There was a good reason for this. Karen had to look under several piles of draped wedding dresses to locate the scene of the crime. When she finally did, it was quite clear that the lock had been blasted away with a miniature plastic explosive. Sydney crouched down and examined it.

'Yup - this was Francois all right.'

Claudia, now kneeling at her shoulder, looked confused: 'You can tell all that from one screwed up lock?'

'I know this guy…' She rolled her eyes. 'Too well, you might say.'

'Well, let's go find him then.' The words were Karen's, and they were calm and resolute. As Sydney turned to her, doubtful, Claudia chipped in:

'Yeah. Let's get him! Anybody who wants to spoil Sydney's big day is gonna answer to us!' She jutted out her bottom lip, prettily evoking her best air of determination.

'Hey, guys,' began Sydney, slightly taken aback. 'I'm flattered you want to help me, but this could be dangerous.'

'François is dangerous?' queried Karen.

'Err, no, not really… it's not François I'm worried about. Nigel and I got wind of a relic hidden in the castle. François is probably after it, but someone else is trying to stop us… they, um, seem to want us dead.'

'Just a usual day at the office, then!' Karen shrugged. 'I'm still up for helping, if you'll let us…'

'Me too,' added Claudia. 'Tho', I'd rather we steered clear of the really bad murder-y people. The cute French not-so-bad guy is the one we want, right?'

'I'll do my best. But please don't get too many ideas about François being 'Mr Right'…'

Claudia tilted her head questioningly. 'You don't want him any more… do you, Syd? You'll never want anyone but Nigel, right?'

Sydney's stopped dead for an instant, as Claudia's words echoed in head. But they didn't resound in Claudia's voice: the voice inside was large, booming, strange and ominous. They told her she should doubt Nigel, they told her she was making a mistake. It took all her mental power to squash them quickly…

Claudia popped her hand to her lips, also wondering where her probing question had come from, and shared with Karen a look of concern: Sydney's answer was way too long coming…

'Of course - I only love Nigel!' said Sydney at length, almost over-firmly. 'I just don't want _you_ getting upset again, mixed up with another lowlife…' Changing the subject quickly, she pointed down at the tiny, pointy-toed stilettos that were squeezed onto Claudia's petite feet. 'And if you're going to be coming on the relic hunt, you might want to change those, err, shoes… you're limping!'

'No way!' Claudia winced: 'They do pinch a bit… but they're worth every blister!'

Sydney laughed. 'It's great to have you back, Claudia! Come on, guys. Let's go find those rings…'

…………………………………………………………………………………………

It could have been seconds later, or it could have been hours. When Nigel awoke, it was still dark. There was a second of disorientation – why, oh why, was he were lying on a hard, stone floor rather than being comfortably ensconced in the honeymoon suite bed? - then the horror of his last experiences descended upon him like a shroud.

'It still must be the after-effects of the alcohol…'

This time, Nigel just couldn't convince himself with his preferred theory. Every muscle in his body clenched with fear as he raised himself to his knees and eased one hand forward, cautiously scanning the ground for the torch. He tremoured with relief as his fingers hit something likely – but, as they tentatively wiggled up a _wooden_ handle, he realised it was _not_ the object he sought.

His fingertips skimmed across, and quickly recoiled from, a cold, metal blade. It was an axe…

Nigel's scream was stifled as an ill-defined force, like bands of artic snow, clamped around his fleeing wrist. As powerful as solid ice, it suspended his hand behind him, contorting his arm awkwardly. A raw wind scorched across the back of his neck.

'François?'

This time, Nigel's voice functioned, but it sounded thin and strained. He knew his plea was futile. No human hand was upon him.

A low, dissonant and infinitely cruel laugh reverberated around the chamber. Nigel swallowed hard - he _knew_ who it was, even as his rational mind railed against him.

'Morholt?'

Nigel's whisper faded into a resonant, affirmative silence. 'What…what do you want? We haven't found the relic… we don't even know what it is yet! And I'm sure Sydney will forget all about it tomorrow, what with the wedding and everything… '

Nigel trailed off, disgusted by his panicky babbling. The silence grew more menacing.

'Are…are you going to kill me?'

This time, the laughter boomed again. 'I see now there is no point in wasting my powers on that task.' The Irish accent was laboured and deliberate, like Braingain's, but coloured with a hideously lilting malice. Nigel winced and chewed his bottom lip as an unremitting force bit into his wrists, tightening like shackles. 'You are no threat to me,' continued his captor. 'The Gallic Knight! He is the one who could find the relic, and draw the sword… he is the one who can give her what she needs! I have seen the ardour between them - the bond that unites two halves of the same soul!'

'No!' Despite his utter helplessness, Nigel's anger boiled within him. 'You're wrong. I trust her… I love her! And she loves me…'

'The man from Gaulle is the one she desires! _He _is the threat to me!' roared the voice. '_You _are no more than the messenger boy. You will tell them to leave now, leave or you all will die…'

'NO' yelled Nigel, his mind now an uncontrollable whirl. Sydney loved him, she loved him…

His confusion was eclipsed as the wrenching hold on his arm tightened faster still; Nigel gritted his teeth against the agony - surely the limb was about to break? White pricks of light began piercing his vision, and he was sure he was going to pass out again – then, and only then, his wrist was relinquished.

Gasping, Nigel cradled his limp arm against him, trembling to his core. Small comfort was afforded by the intrinsic knowledge of room was empty again - somehow, some way, Morholt was gone.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Nigel exhaled unsteadily, rubbing his bruised but apparently unbroken arm. The throbbing was nothing, however, in comparison to the desolate ache in his chest. Whether a delusion or an apparition, Morholt had opened a gaping wound, shattering the armour of Nigel's heart with the tiniest chink of doubt:

'Am I really to one to make her the happiest?'

………………………………

Sydney cast the bedroom door open.

'Nigel?'

There was no answer to his call. He wasn't sitting on the bed reading, or, indeed, anywhere to be seen.

'Wow! Nice room!' bubbled Claudia. She bounced down on the bed, which emitted a suitably delicate 'eek' at the impact of her tiny weight. 'Very springy…ew, yuck!'

Her nose wrinkled as she caught sight of the picture of Morholt, waving his shiny axe. 'That picture is gross. Why would anybody put _that_ in the honeymoon suite…'

Sydney hadn't been listening. She was just peeping into the bathroom, establishing that Nigel had not hiding there quietly, as she imagined he might do if he'd been in an unclad state when he'd heard the gaggle of females approaching. 'That's weird,' she muttered. 'I told him to come straight back here…'

'Maybe he's gone exploring?' offered Karen. 'I can just see Nigel getting kinda excited about a place like this.'

'But he was right behind me…' Sydney's brow creased with worry. She'd _assumed _he had been right behind her, but now she recalled that she'd shot off so fast that she couldn't be sure he'd ever left the chamber behind the Great Hall - the chamber where she'd felt such an eerie presence.

She stared up in alarm at her two bridesmaids. Even Claudia had stilled her bouncing on the bed. They all sensed something was wrong.

'I've got to get back to the old part of the castle, right now….ah!'

Sydney snatched a sharp intake of breath, as a breeze swooshed across the room, sending a frigid spasm down her spine. Claudia squealed, leapt up in terror and grasped Karen's arm. The door behind them slammed hard.

'Sydney… what was that?'

Two pairs of liquid blue eyes were fixed upon Sydney, swimming with apprehension. The answer was slow, and not as reassuring as she would have liked. 'I don't know…'

She slipped by them and pulled on the door handle. Nothing. She tried the key. After some vigorous scrambling, she realised it would not even enter the hole: the lock, that she'd used only a minute ago, was blocked.

'Damn!' Sydney tugged the door towards her with all her strength. Still nothing. 'It's jammed.'

Karen, needing no prompting, picked up the phone to dial reception. She placed the receiver to her ear, then lowered it slowly. 'The line's dead.'

'I don't like this, Syd,' whispered Claudia. 'What's happening?'

'It's going to be fine,' stated Sydney, unable to repress the shiver in her voice. 'I'll see if I can climb out of the bathroom window. I know _that's _possible…'

She ran into the bathroom, as the wind wailed again: an angry storm appeared to be brewing. Grinding her jaw, she poured all her strength into yanking up the rain-lashed window. It was just as immovable as the door.

'This is just great,' she thought. 'How am I supposed to save François, if I'm stuck in here…'

Her hands tumbled lethargically from the bar of the window. '_François_?' The image of the Frenchman at the window flashed in her mind, bringing with it beautiful recollections of the Peruvian jungle, of romance, and passion... then he was replaced by Tony. Tall, dark handsome Tony, her high-school sweetheart, his memory intertwined with the careless freedom of her girlhood in Hawaii. Hot on his heels, she remembered Gray, so steady, so attentive - she'd been _so_ convinced he was 'Mr Right.' Then there was Alan - they'd be good together, once - and even Derek Lloyd. There'd been a spark there, yet she'd never kindled the flame …

The little voice in her head spoke softly and clearly: 'So many avenues not taken, Sydney. So many possibilities for love and excitement turned down… how do you know? How do you _really _know you've chosen the right one…?'

Sydney screamed, thrusting her fingertips to the roots of hair - the memory of her first kiss with Tony was nearly melting her to the core, threatening to unleash an ocean of doubt. 'Stop screwing with my head – I love Nigel, I love only him! Leave me alone…'

Her quandary was only dispelled by the high-pitched scream from the bedroom.

'Claudia! What is it?'

Back in the bedroom, Claudia and Karen were now huddled together, their arms around each other. Karen raised a shaky finger. 'The picture…'

Even Sydney recoiled in horror as she absorbed the site of Morholt, who now filled the frame completely - his handsome opponent was no longer visible in the picture. His axe, still raised menacingly, now dripped with blood.

'Sydney,' whimpered Claudia, as thunder and lightning crashed. 'Did you know you'd organised your wedding in a haunted castle?'

**Thanks for reading. Please review – I'm really busy right now, and reviews always motivate me to write ;)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: As ever.**

**Thanks for the reviews. Sorry this has been so long coming. Real life has been rather intrusive lately!**

………………………

CHAPTER FOUR

Nigel's legs felt like jelly as he fumbled his way from the dark chamber of his nightmare. He hurried unsteadily through the Great Hall – daring not look around him for gloating apparitions or flying weaponry - and tumbled down the spiral staircase. It was only when he hit the corridor that led back to the newer part of the castle that his wits and strength began to return to him: whether he was a ghost or a madman, a murderer or a harmless wraith, who was that bearded _thug_ to tell him that Sydney didn't love him? Still, his doubts were putting a vicious resistance against his valiant attempts at rehabilitation… could Morholt be right?

Nigel was lost in his tumultuous thoughts, and still maintaining a rapid pace, as he blindly rounded the corner into the bedroom corridor, smacking straight into somebody making their way in the opposite direction…

'Aaaargh!' Nigel yelped and bounced back against the wall, knocking askew a fading tapestry portraying several fleeing deer.

'Jesus Christ, Podge! Why don't you look where you're going - I could have spilt some of my Glemorangie sixteen-year-old single malt!'

Preston was extremely relieved to see his double shot of the expensive Scotch whisky, which sparkled enticingly golden at the bottom of a crystal cut glass, had survived the impact with the loss of only a single slop. He was less impressed, however, when Nigel launched himself away from the tapestry with great determination, snatched the drink from his brother and downed its contents in one.

'Nigel!' spluttered Preston. 'I hope you're going to pay for that! It cost over $10 on my room bill, and I needed it to soothe the pain in my poor old back. That ruddy woman's luggage went on forever - I never even saw _her_, just the bloody suitcases. Thank God we got in before this rain started…' He paused and, as the wind whined loudly through the cracks in the ancient stone around them, he finally lifted his gaze from his whisky glass to his brother. 'Heavens, Nigel! You look terrible - what happened to you?'

Preston registered that Nigel, now flopped exhaustedly back against the tapestry again, was a deathly shade of white. One hand clutched the whisky glass so hard it looked like it was about to crack between his fingers; the other lolled limply at his side. His usually soft, hazel eyes were wide, staring and harrowed.

A genuine concern vied with Preston's annoyance over the whisky. 'What happened? Did that Frenchman attack you?'

Nigel took a deep breath, feeling the fortifying effects of the spirit flowing warmly through his arteries. 'No… it wasn't him. I'll be fine in a minute.'

Preston frowned and pried the glass from Nigel's fingers, concerned he would be charged for a breakage. 'Are you quite sure it wasn't him? Sydney says Francois just robbed poor Karen - surely there aren't any _other _criminal elements floating about? Indeed, I've no idea why Sydney just doesn't call the police. She really must have a soft spot for that foreign chap!'

'Sydney doesn't love him!' Nigel straightened suddenly, his pale cheeks flushing scarlet and his fists clenching his sides.

Preston took a step back, fearing he was about to be clobbered. 'I never said she did!' he protested. 'But she's obviously still got some feelings for him, or she wouldn't be taking matters into her own hands like this.'

Nigel's glower deepened. 'You know Sydney well enough to know she likes to sort things out herself…and she will sort things out, everything!'

'All right, all right! I'm sure she will - when she's stopped trying on all those dresses.'

'Trying on dresses? What do you mean?'

'Well she's hardly passed this way lately, has she?' scoffed Preston, summoning up a superior snigger. 'That's what _I_'m doing down here. Trying to make sure that rogue doesn't escape!'

'Rubbish,' bit back Nigel. 'I know you! You were off to see if there's anything up for grabs here… anything that might look good on your resumé when you take it back to the British Museum!'

'That isn't true!' bristled Preston.

'Yet it is! You've never been the sort to selflessly go about stopping criminals - especially with an expensive glass of whisky in your hand!'

Preston puffed indignantly as thunder assaulted their ears. 'Well you're wrong. And seeing as I no longer have an expensive glass of whisky my hand, there's now nothing to slow me down. If you'll excuse me!'

Preston stomped off up of the corridor, wondering quite where he was going. He had, of course, been keen to find out what Sydney and Nigel were after, but his explorations in that direction had been rather tentative. In truth, the last thing he'd wanted was to run into that awful Frenchman again. All he'd really been doing, when Nigel interrupted him, was admiring the tapestries as he enjoyed his reviving tipple and tried to shut out the unsettling storm. Now he had to go on some stupid, and possibly risky, exploring trip, in a part of the castle where the roof would no-doubt leak - it was _all_ Nigel's fault!

Nigel, on the other hand, started equally confidently in the opposite direction. If Preston wanted to waltz into the old castle alone, that was _his _lookout. He positively _hoped_ that Preston would be scared witless by that horrible ghost. All he wanted right now was to find Sydney and, regardless of the situation with Francois, dresses and rings, tell her about his ordeal and put all his doubts to rest… not that he had doubts. Did he?

…………………………………

'Syd… I really don't like this…'

'Neither do I, Claudia. But everything will be just fine! I just need to get this window open…nnnng!'

The three women had retreated to the cavernous, drafty bathroom, blocked the door with a chair - just in case - and were now collectively straining to get the window frame open. Even Claudia had placed her perfectly manicured purple nails in jeopardy and was joining in the effort.

The rain and wind lashed against the portal. It was as if the elements themselves were conspiring to keep it closed tight, and the three women trapped in their haunted apartment.

'Aaaargh!' Sydney gave a last, effortful thrust then flung herself backwards, aggravated as her trials came to nothing. Even worse, uninvited recollections of amorous trysts with her former lovers continue to make her weak at the knees. 'It's no good. This is useless…'

'We've got to keep trying,' entreated Karen, concerned by Sydney's uncharacteristic negativity.

Sydney shook her head, rubbing her forehead as she tried to focus. 'Someone… or something has sealed this window. Force is getting us nowhere. We've got to think of another way out.'

'We could shout for help?' suggested Claudia. 'Maybe Nigel will hear us?'

'Above this storm?' questioned Karen. 'Nigel's going to have to have razor sharp hearing…uh, Syd? What is it?'

Sydney was gazing vacantly at the two blondes, engulfed in a torrent of disturbing emotions. 'Nigel..?' she said slowly, as if trying to recollect who he was.

'Yuh…Nigel? The guy you're marrying?' Karen articulated slowly as if she was talking to a child; she was now _really_ worried.

'Syd,' begged Claudia. 'Are you okay? We're stuck in a haunted castle - we _need_ you to be okay.'

With a momentous effort, Sydney pushed the images every other man she'd ever romanced from her mind, and tried to concentrate on the one man she'd ever really loved. 'Nigel,' she murmured. 'Nigel…' She could barely remember his face - all she could see was a cute, dark-haired guy, dressed in a smart dinner suit, tuxedo and cravat. His arm was wrapped around the wasp-like waist of a blonde in a slinky scarlet gown, as they waltzed across a candle-lit ballroom. It was Claudia - Nigel was dancing with Claudia! No - Nigel was kissing Claudia, and they seemed just perfect together! After a passionate embrace, he pulled away and pecked Claudia affectionately on the tip of the nose, making her giggle endearingly.

Jealously surged in the pit of Sydney's stomach, but a voice in her head sucked her will to fight: 'He's not for you. You need Alan, Grey, guys that can show you a really good time - not wine and dine you like a prep-school boy with a debutant blonde. _Claudia_ would make Nigel happy…'

Then the vision vanished. Sydney gawped blankly at her friends.

'It's the ghost, isn't it?' whispered Claudia, so scared that tears pricked in her eyes. 'That horrid freak was in my head too… he made me question you, made me doubt. Don't listen to him, Sydney. Nigel is the _only_ one for you…'

'What if he's right,' mused Sydney dreamily. 'I thought I loved Grey once, and Alan…even François. And he's here… François came for me…'

'No way!' Claudia little fist snatched at Sydney's sleeve and yanked her around to face her with an unexpected strength. 'You listen to me Syd! You love Nigel – you love him and he loves you in the way I've always wanted to love someone – it's the _real thing_! You've got to fight whatever lowlife who is making you think otherwise.' Recognition and anger flashed in Sydney's glazed eyes. '_Nigel_…remember?'

'Come on, Syd,' pleaded Karen. 'There must be so much about Nigel that puts all the other guys in the shade. He's sure the best kisser, _I've_ ever know…'

'Yeah, Nigel's great,' chipped in Claudia. 'Think of the way he always opens doors and stuff – yeah, I know its old fashioned, but it _is_ kinda nice…'

'And think how cute he gets when he's embarrassed – the way he blushes, and touches his forehead…and kind of smiles,' added Karen, noting as the edges of Sydney's lips began to soften into a warm smile. 'I've gotta admit, I used to wind him up just to see him do that…I, err, still do'

'I used to find the way he, uh, purses his lips when he's _really_ thinking hard kind of sexy…' confessed Claudia. 'It almost made me want to go for intellectual types…'

'And he has really nice hair!' added Karen. 'And he's usually very, uh, clean…just like the kind of guy you'd like to wake up next to in the morning…that's gotta be good, Syd, huh? Waking up next to Nigel?'

Sydney exploded into a giggle. 'Let's just say its one of life's pleasures, girls! You might not think it of our modest little Englishman, but let's just say he doesn't wear as much under the covers as he used to…'

'Woh!' grinned Karen, 'we need to have a serious chat about that sometime – you gotta share! But, most of all, he's Nigel, right? Kind, chivalrous, oh-so-intelligent…'

'Hey, he's not all sweetness and light,' butted in Claudia. 'He could be totally grumpy with me – especially in the mornings…'

'Yeah,' laughed Syd. 'He sure as heck can be cantankerous…but its all part of the man I love.' She raised her fingers to her temples again, as if to check the invasion was over, then smiled at the others. 'Phew. I think that's passed. She exhaled deeply and then pulled both of her companions into a hug.

'You guys are the best friends ever. We'll get through this, and we'll have a great day tomorrow. I promise. Nothing will ever become between me and my friends - oh, and my future husband!'

'Not even François?' Claudia gave a little hiccup and threw her finger to her lips. 'Oh, God, Syd! That wasn't me…it was him – the evil guy. He was in my head again! Please, get him out…'

The wind moaned again, and rattled the windowpane, a timely reminder of their ongoing predicament. At that moment, there was a tap at the bathroom door.

'Christ!' breathed Karen, as the three of them huddled together. 'How can there be anyone there?' she hissed. 'Apart from…'

Sydney gently brushed off her two friends and yanked the towel rail of the wall. 'I don't know,' she replied gravely. 'But if he thinks he's coming anywhere near us, he's got another thing coming. He can mess with my mind, and he can fight me if he likes, but _nobody_ messes with the heart of tomorrow's bride!'

Her fingers tightened on her weapon as the door creaked slightly, but didn't open.

'If you're too cowardly to come in here and face three women, I'm coming out to get you!' yelled Sydney

The reply was eerily calm - and female. 'There's no need for that, great huntress. He's gone… for now.'

Sydney, still holding her weapon, kicked away the chair beneath the handle and pulled the door open.

'Brangain!'

There, indeed, stood the odd-looking old woman. As her gaze fell on Sydney and her two terrified friends, she did not flinch; her thin mouth was set in an inscrutable line, as if she'd been watching them all along.

'Yes, it is I,' she said calmly. 'I've realised that finding this relic is going to be more troublesome than I first believed.'

'No kidding?' Sydney flung down her weapon with an indiscernible groan. 'Karen, Claudia… meet the woman who might just have started all this trouble: Brangain, our, err, tour guide.'

Karen smiled and nodded coldly, although Claudia smiled sweetly. Sydney turned back to the elderly lady. 'You've got a heck of a lot of explaining to do…' She glanced across the empty bedroom and narrowed her eyes. 'Like, uh, how did you open that door. It was jammed shut.'

'It was wide open,' replied the old woman matter-of-factly.

Sydney raised her eyebrows sardonically. She wanted answers, and she wanted them soon. She was just about to start her interrogation, however, when Claudia, who had been transfixed by this scandalously unfashionable individual, bounced out from behind her.

'Why do I get a feeling that you can read tea-leaves?' asked the petite blonde.

'Tea?' asked Brangain, ever-so-slightly fazed. 'What is this? Tea?'

'Not a tea lady?' shrugged Claudia. 'Oh… but you _do_ tell fortunes, right?' She moved closer to the woman, her boldness fuelled by an instinctual belief. 'You _do_, don't you? Please tell me who my destiny is… I _have_ to know.'

Brangain almost smiled: she said nothing, but the words rang loud and clear in Claudia's mind. 'Later, my child. I will do all I can for you, I promise. Just be patient… '

……………………

'Stupid, arrogant, supercilious, patronising git!' grumbled Nigel, as he hurried up the corridor. 'Heaven knows what women seen in you… but then heaven knows what Sydney sees in me…'

'Aaaaaaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeegh!'

Nigel's renewed wrangling with his insecurities was abruptly interrupted by a high-pitched, blasting scream from behind him.

It certainly wasn't Preston. It sounded like…Claudia!

The noise hadn't ceased to resound around the building as Nigel sprinted back up the corridor. Preston was hovering at the entrance to the spiral staircase, fear and confusion mingling on his countenance.

'Which direction did the scream come from?' demanded Nigel. 'Up or down?'

'Down,' stammered Preston. 'Down…without a doubt. That poor girl… we must help her!'

'Then what are you waiting for?' yelled Nigel, with an urgent sarcasm. Preston was completely blocking his way, dithering interminably.

'I don't know… that voice! I've never heard it before, but it…'

'… it sounded like Claudia.' Unable to bear the thought of his friend in distress a second longer, Nigel pushed past his brother and dashed down the staircase to the undercroft. He pulled out his torch as he hit complete blackness, and held it up at his shoulder: 'Claudia? Was that you?'

An enormous crash of thunder shook the ancient tower to its very foundations, drowning out any reply or whimper.

As the mountainous sound faded away, Nigel fought against the iron grip of his own stultifying fear. 'It's okay,' he called above the dying rumbles; his voice sounded small. 'It's Nigel!' Still no reply came.

He gasped silently as he sensed a presence at his shoulder.

'Where's the girl?'

Nigel shuddered with relief: the breath on the back of his neck was warm. The whisper was Preston's.

'There's nobody here,' murmured Nigel. 'You heard wrong. The scream must have come from up the staircase. Unless...'

The rays of the torch, with which Nigel had been probing the shadowy corners, juttered onto the floor itself, revealing the trapdoor, lying open just as he in Sydney had left it.

'We'd better look down there.'

Preston gulped. 'Nobody would be in there… surely, that 's the…the…'

'Dungeon,' completed Nigel gravely, too unsettled to snap at his brother for his cowardice. 'And I'm not leaving until I know that Claudia isn't down there. Are you coming then?'

Not waiting for an answer, Nigel began easing gingerly towards the opening, with small tiptoeing steps, until he was standing on the edge of the precipice. Swallowing hard, he made a silent plea that no ginger-bearded face would leer up at him from the darkness, and peeped in.

Once again, nobody was there. There was nothing but the cruel, lifeless shackles, still hanging limply from the walls.

Despite everything, Nigel felt greatly fortified when he sensed Preston's heavy panting at his ear again. 'We'd better go…' he began. Then his world turned askew.

A flash of white lightening – or a sensation resembling one - momentarily lit the windowless undercroft. Preston emitted a curiously high-pitched shriek and grabbed his brother, seizing both his arms as if he was the last rock of refuge for a drowning man. Nigel, already somewhat unsteady, was quite unable to brace himself against the momentum of his brother's weight.

For a terrible moment, they teetered unsteadily above the gloomy depths of the dungeon. Then, as Nigel yelled - 'Preston - you fool!' - they both tumbled in.

They hit the ground with a loud, crunching squidge. The trapdoor above them slammed shut, reverberating like thunder to the preceding lightening flash.

'Oooof! Aaaargh! Bloody hell!'

Nigel found himself lying flat on his back in the damp - but thankfully relatively soft - mud floor, the shockwaves of the impact still jarring through his body. His brother had landed in a crumpled heap, fortunately not entirely on top of him, although he had not relinquished his vice like grip on Nigel sleeves. Pointy bits of Preston - elbows, knees and God-knows-what-else - seem to be jabbing in all over him.

'Ow! Oh, bloody hell! Preston - get off me you lump! Ow!'

Preston didn't answer; Nigel groaned. The shock of the impact subsiding, he was starting to feel rather numb, yet he knew it would be only a matter of time before he ached all over. He mused resignedly that it was now certain he would not even be able to move on his wedding day, let alone 'perform'!

'Preston… I know you're conscious, because you're still holding onto me! I don't know what possessed you to lose your balance like that but _please_ move - your elbow is in my stomach and it is making breathing increasingly difficult.'

Preston shifted slightly, letting go of Nigel's far sleeve, but keeping his grip on the near one. 'Who… who was that?'

'Who was what? It was a lightening strike, wasn't it?'

'Lightening couldn't get in here!' wailed Preston. 'There was a man… didn't you see? He swung an axe at you and I had to pull you out of the way… I tried to stop you falling but, of course, you pulled us both in…'

'Any fool could see that you pulled us in!' seethed Nigel. 'But…but… this face. What did it look like?'

'Horrible! He had green flashing eyes and a ginger beard… surely you saw him? Really, Nigel… ' Preston's voice fell to a hush, as a terrible realisation hit him. 'He might still be up there!'

Nigel contemplated quietly. He was sort of relieved that Preston _had_ seen Morholt - it confirmed _he_ wasn't going mad! However, more depressingly, it confirmed that the evil Prince of Ireland was really here…

Trying not to dwell on this, or the matter that the daemon could be lurking in the darkness, Nigel pushed himself up into a sitting position and reached for the torch that had rolled off across the floor, thankfully still lit. Swerving it up to the ceiling, he confirmed that the trapdoor was firmly shut.

He sighed tiredly. 'Somehow we have to try and get that open, and I know it's a sticky one… what is it?'

At the light washed over Preston's face, Nigel observed, almost impassively, that his brother was shaking like a leaf. The elder Bailey lifted a trembling finger and pointed behind his brother.

'Something… something moved. There in the darkness….'

Nigel turned slowly, with dread, trying to suppress horrific visions of what he was going to see. There in the gloom, lying inanimate, but all but glowing with imminent, pent-up energy, was Morholt's axe.

'Oh, God…' breathed Nigel. 'We're going to die!'

………………………….

Claudia and Karen perched uneasily on the edge of the large, white-porcelain bath as Brangain began her tail.

'The builders bought much more than bricks and mortar from Ireland in the 1920s, much more than hidden relics. They brought spirits - spirits that had haunted this castle from the laying of its foundations in the sixth century…'

'That much I've guessed,' said Sydney dryly. 'Could one of these be Morholt, tyrannical Prince of Ireland, by any chance?'

Brangain nodded grimly.

'You sure are good, Syd,' muttered Karen admiringly.

'Only one, furious purpose has given his spirit the strength to stay here, and resist the fate that awaits him in the underworld,' continued Brangain. 'Hatred'!

'Hatred?' echoed Claudia timidly, her lip curling with tremulous disgust.

'Yes! Hatred! Hatred for Tristan for loving his niece, Iseult. Hatred for Iseult for loving him back, and for not taking his revenge and killing Tristan while he lay injured in her care. He set into motion the events in their life that would drive them apart…he planted the golden hair.'

'Of course,' tagged Sydney. 'King Mark of Cornwall sought to marry the woman from whose head was shed a beautiful strand of golden hair, which had come into his possession. Tristan promised to find and bring her to him, but was injured in a battle with a dragon during the quest and nursed back to health by Iseult. Then he realised the golden hair belonged to her – the woman he'd grown to love! He could not break his promise, so the marriage to King Mark went ahead…'

'But, although the promise was kept, it was a false marriage!' Brangain's grey eyes shimmered like a silver sea. '_I_ can promise you that. But there was so much more treachery to come …'

'Okay,' said Sydney, starting to pace impatiently. 'I already know you want me to find the relic to prove they really loved each other, rather than being enchanted – on top of finding my own, stolen wedding bands! It might help, though, if you could tell me what it is I'm after!'

Brangain's countenance was set as impassionate as ever. 'Find my relic, and you will have no need to recover your loss. I must say no more. I have sworn.'

'I think I'm starting to get the picture,' said Sydney contemplatively. 'If I'm guessing right, what you're pointing us to _would_ be quite a find. But do you think revealing the relic would stop Morholt scaring the bejesus out of my guests and trying to drive Nigel and I apart?'

'I would have thought it might just piss him off more,' observed Karen.

Brangain smiled sadly. 'His hatred has grown to consume his spirit so entirely that it's become a detestation of _all_ lovers. Yours is not the first wedding to be held here… but I hope it will be one of the few that reaches the stage of the ceremony, and the _first_ to be consummated!'

'What?!' interjected Karen. 'They didn't say _that_ in the brochure when I booked this place! No wonder they usually just do conferences…'

Brangain barely heard, so caught up was she in her tale.

'He has become a sprite of pure hatred! Until recently his power was slight – he just hid in the painting, scared the bridesmaids and poisoned the minds of the bride and groom. But he sensed your power - your ability to reveal the truth of Tristan and Iseult's love, and he has summoned up an unworldly strength!'

'Like a poltergeist?' chirruped Claudia.

'Once again, I'm not sure of your word, my child. But if you mean an evil spirit of seismic power, yes!''

'Yuck!' winced Claudia.

'Great,' muttered Sydney. 'Lucky us.'

'If you wish to be married tomorrow, you must vanquish him forever - before he vanquishes you! Either that, or go and never return. You must marry your young man somewhere else – although I cannot promise he will not hunt you down.'

Sydney sighed as she shared a long, knowing look with Karen. They both knew how difficult it had been to get all of Sydney's globetrotting friends in one place at one time. It would be absolutely impossible to do it again for years, if ever.

It was Claudia, however, who answered. 'No way!' she snapped. 'I look great in those bridesmaids dresses – all seven of them – and nothing is going to stop me putting them on tomorrow. Nobody is going to drive us away and stop Sydney and Nigel getting married! Not even that ugly goon in the painting!'

'Yeah,' echoed Karen, just as forcefully.

'Decision made, then,' affirmed Sydney. 'So, err, first things first… how do we kill the undead, evil Prince?'

Brangain shook her head tiredly. 'I wish I knew. Finding the relic would weaken him greatly, but may not destroy him. My guess is that, like water on a flame, pure hatred can be quenched only by its opposite - pure love!'

'We've got to kill him with love?' Karen voiced Sydney's incredulity.

'Yes! The power of a love he couldn't tear apart – like Tristan and Iseult's…;

'And Sydney and Nigel's!' added Claudia conclusively. 'Nothing can tear them apart!'

'You tell 'em, Claudia,' grinned Karen.

Sydney glowed warm inside, suddenly empowered. Claudia may appear to be an airhead, but she had hidden depths – and her faith in her friends was truly touching. And the blonde was right – _nothing_ would tear her and Nigel apart.

'Okay then,' started Syd. 'First we still need to find Nigel. Have you any idea where he is?'

Brangain raised her hands, her eyelids drooping carefully, as if her mind was working very hard indeed. Then her eyes snapped open.

'He's in the old part of the castle,' she cried. 'You must go quickly… he could be in danger!'

This was more than enough information for Sydney. She was already halfway out of the door, and charging down the corridor. Karen tore off, close behind her, leaving Claudia standing in the door with a bathroom, frozen by the fear of passing again beneath you awful portrait of Morholt.

'Don't be scared, child,' whispered Brangain. 'He won't hurt you now, I won't let him.'

Claudia smiled nervously, as she remembered the voice in her head earlier, then forced out the question she'd been dying to ask: 'Please, I need to know my fate. Will it be him, waiting for me there, in that _dark place_.' The last words rolled lasciviously off her tongue.

Brangain nodded, her expression still blank but her eyes smiling. 'Your love will be there waiting for you. He's come far across the ocean to be with you, and is the only one who can bring your happiness, your destiny…'

'Will he be tall, dark and handsome?' pleaded Claudia, scrunching her nose excitedly. 'And rich!'

Brangain finally smiled. 'It almost time to find out, my child!'

Claudia shimmered with joy. 'Thank you! Thank you so much… I'd better go now!'

She dashed through the bedroom, not turning to look at the portrait. As she entered the corridor, however, she paused to look back at the old lady. 'You know, you could take years off your complexion with a good moisturiser! I can recommend the perfect product.'

Brangain's smile finally tumbled into a laugh. 'I think it's too late for me, my scéimhiúil!'

Claudia, ignoring the baffling term of endearment, raised her hands contrarily. 'It's _never_ too late to start a good skincare routine. We've _got_ to talk. Later!'

She turned on her high heels, and started off down the corridor. As she did, she heard Braingain call after her: 'Claudia - tell, Sydney! Nigel is in the dungeon…'

Claudia stopped dead for a moment. 'Nigel? In the dungeon… in the _dark place_…_my _dark place_, my_ destiny? It's just not possible…?'

Too confused to respond, she hurried off after her friends.

……………………..

Thanks for reading. More to come – soon this time, I promise, but please, PLEASE review.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimers: as ever.**

**Thanks so much for those reviews. Much appreciated. Please keep letting me know what you think!**

CHAPTER FIVE

'Oh God,' whispered to Nigel. 'We're going to die!'

'Die? What on earth makes you think that?' Preston grabbed the torch from Nigel and scanned it frantically around, as a distant rumble of thunder permeated through the thick walls. 'No…the axe-man isn't down here. We're definitely trapped, though. Bloody hell, Nigel - how did you get me into this? Even your wedding is going to be intolerably hazardous!'

'Shut up, Preston!' snapped Nigel, seizing the light back. 'It's your fault we ended up down here!'

'My fault? _You_ were always the jumpy one…'

'And you're a bloody liar!'

'Really, Nigel, there's no need to be abusive!'

At this point, Nigel decided discussion was futile. He couldn't even _start _to tell Preston that the enemy was the ghost of a long-dead Irish prince. He'd just deride him - until the blood flew and it was all too late.

Trying not to panic, Nigel thought to himself: 'What would Sydney do? Not sit about doing nothing, that's for sure…'

Mumbling determinedly, he clambered to his feet, brushing an extensive amount of mud from the back of his shirt and trousers. He deliberately did not look back at the axe - he knew his brother, despite his skepticism, sensed _something_ about it and was watching it like a hawk. He shoved the torch in a niche in the wall and started to examine the trap door.

'I was enchanted by that scream,' said Preston, after over a minute of awkward silence. 'You say it sounds like, err, Claudia?'

'Yes, it did,' said Nigel dully, still gazing upward.

'It was amazing… ear-piercing, yes, but somehow heartrending! It was a cry of a beautiful maiden in distress. I knew I had to help her…'

'Oh, that's what you were doing, was it? To me, it looked like you were standing in the doorway, dithering!' Nigel stood up on tiptoes and began prying at the edges of the trapdoor with his fingertips. 'And we never did get to help her. Dammit! I hope she's okay?' Having made little progress, Nigel began jumping up and down, bashing at the bottom of the trapdoor, to very little effect.

'Claudia!' declared Preston with a flourish, making no effort to assist. 'It's a beautiful name, isn't it? Anyway, _I_ was trying to make a rational decision about what to do next, when _you _ran up panicking. Ah, I wish I'd looked behind all those parts of luggage now, just for a peek at her. From that enchanting scream, I'm guessing she's even more beautiful than Karen…'

'Nnnng!' cried Nigel, landing heavily as his efforts came to nothing. 'How can you think about your hopeless love-life at a time like this? We're stuck in a dungeon…with…with…oh hell, you'd never understand. You'd might as well stop moping and come and help me, because you've absolutely no chance of getting it on with Claudia – no more than I've got any chance with Sydney!'

'What in heavens name do you mean?' blustered Preston. 'No chance with Sydney? You're marrying the woman tomorrow - she clearly adores you!'

Nigel raised his fingers to his temples in horror as an image flashed into his brain: Preston and Sydney touring the British Museum, alone, at night, devoid of all tourists. His brother was translating ancient hieroglyphs to her. He was reading them slightly wrong, of course, but she was smiling and nodding, admiringly – lovingly, even. Then, suddenly, they were in the Greek display room, rolling between the columns of the Nereid temple, kissing, fondling…making love. And, hell, they looked good together! Nigel felt nauseous as he tried to thrust the image from his consciousness. Where the hell did _that_ come from?

'Eh?' he said at length. 'Oh…oh, yes, I'm marrying her tomorrow. But maybe it isn't such a good idea.'

'What _are_ you wittering you on about?' Now Preston was really confused.

Nigel gazed miserably at the axe. 'I can't make her happy. And neither can you!'

'I never said _I _could!'

'No…no. It's just that…oh, I don't know.' Nigel's head drooped forward balefully. 'She needs somebody as uninhibited and as full of life as she is. In the end, I'll hold her back, slow her down. She'll always want another man - a _real_ man. Not stupid, boring, fumbling….Podge!'

Preston was mystified. His vindictive streak urged him to say, 'you've seen sense at last then, little brother!' but the echo of the scream still tingled in his ears, unleashing long suppressed sentiments. He lifted a hand to Nigel's shoulder. 'Uh…of course you can make her happy.' His fingers shifted awkwardly and he could feel Nigel's muscles tense under his touch – this didn't feel natural. Nevertheless, he choked out the words.

'You've made her happy for the past half decade - no doubt you'll make her happy for the next half century. You always _did_ get all the luck.' He laughed ruefully.

Nigel edged away and Preston dropped his hand. 'What do you mean…get all the luck? You stole half-a-dozen girlfriends from me, _and_ the job at the British Museum!'

'Yes,' lamented Preston. 'And, besides _always_ being mother and father's favourite little darling, _you_ ended up with the PhD, the appointment at the prestigious American university, discovering half the lost treasures of ancient Christendom, _and_ getting shacked up with one of the worlds most beautiful and successful women.'

Preston garbled this out as if it hurt him to admit it. It did – but not as much as it usually did. 'What had changed?' he wondered. 'Oh,' added the elder brother as an afterthought. 'And Sydney is a fantastic kisser!'

'How the hell would you know?'

Preston licked his lips – he'd been having some wonderfully real daydreams lately – but maybe they were not to be shared. 'Oh…just a guess. There's something odd about this place. The strangest thoughts keep popping into my mind…'

Nigel grunted. 'Tell me about it!'

'You've felt it too. Ah, well, there you are. So stop moping about! Marry the woman and be done with it. Now,' he jumped to his feet, and weaved his fingers together so his hands formed a step for Nigel to climb up on. 'You'd better get on with this, and make it quick. If not, I'll be sending you and the future Mrs. Bailey a _very_ big chiropractor's bill…'

………………………………..

'Syd?' Claudia called, her voice high-pitched and wary, from the entrance to the spiral staircase. She didn't know whether Karen and Sydney had gone up or down, and she sure as hell wasn't going in there by herself. It was way beyond creepy!

'Up here, Claudia!' came the reply. 'We're in the Great Hall… heading around the back.'

'You don't want to be there,' called Claudia, increasingly mournful. 'Nigel is in the… dungeon. The tea…err, guide-lady so said.'

'He is?' In a matter of seconds, Sydney was descending a staircase tearing past her former secretary. 'How the hell does he get down there? I hope he's okay!'

'Me too,' whispered Claudia. 'I never thought it would be _Nigel_… I mean he's cute, and all, but…oh God, the man I was supposed to be with, is marrying my best friend!'

'What did you say?' The question was Karen's. Sydney was long gone, but her current secretary rounded the corner just as Claudia let slip her little confession.

Claudia pouted, her grief heartfelt. 'It's Nigel! He's in the _dark place_…he must be the one! But it's okay. I can't ever steal him from Syd – I love them both too much. I guess it's just my fate to be alone forever!'

'No way! It's all a mistake, Claudia - you'll see that soon.' Karen took her friend gently by the wrist. 'Come on…let's help Syd. We'll sort this out later, okay?'

Claudia looked yearningly into her friends sincere blue eyes and bit her quivering bottom lip against the tears. 'Okay…'

…………………………

'For crying out loud, Nigel! Push harder!'

'I can't push if you keep moving…'

'How can I not sway a bit? You weigh a bloody ton!'

Nigel braced his arms against the trapdoor, for the umpteenth time, and pushed as hard as he could. Preston, who was sure that his arms had become a least a foot longer in the time he had been supporting his brother's weight, wobbled drastically at the crucial moment once again, making all Nigel's straining redundant.

'This is useless!' Nigel jumped down. 'Can't I try sitting on your shoulders or something?'

'If you want me to spend the rest of my days in a wheelchair, yes! Look, why don't we wait for Sydney… if you were in your right mind, you'd know that she'd come.'

Nigel gazed at the axe. 'Yes,' he thought. 'But this time, will she be quick enough…'

He took a deep breath. 'We've got to keep trying. This castle is, um, haunted. And that fellow with the axe - he was the ghost of the long-dead Irish prince, Morholt – the one slain by Tristan. Walls won't keep him out of here if he wants to get us. And, um, for some reason he's not too keen on Syd and I being together.'

'I thought you'd grown out of this rubbish,' began Preston, his voice far from confident. 'What tosh…uh? Aaaargh!'

For the second time that afternoon, Preston grabbed his brother in terror as the axe twitched once, and then raised itself, very slowly, a few inches in the air. After a second, it dropped to the floor with a clatter.

'How…what?'

'He's trying, you idiot,' whispered Nigel. 'He's trying to lift it. For some reason his power is not adequate…yet…'

'All right, all right! Better a broken back than a severed head!' Preston, not entirely convinced he hadn't gone mad, crouched down. 'Get on my shoulders and push, Nigel - but let's call for help at the same time, shall we?'

Nigel nodded, for once in total agreement. 'Good idea!'

…………………..

'Nigel!'

Sydney raced into the undercroft and straight over to the closed trapdoor from where her fiancé's muffled cries came. 'Nigel! Are you okay?'

'Sydney! Yes, I'm fine…I think! The doors jammed - _really _jammed this time!'

'Don't worry, I'll get it open.' She motioned to Karen and Claudia, who had just rushed into the chamber, with a large sweeping motion of her arm. 'Come on girls, we've got to put our backs into this. Up for it, _again_?'

'You bet!' Karen wrapped her arms firmly round Syd's stomach, and Claudia did the same around hers.

'Okay?' called Sydney. 'You push from below, we'll heave upwards. One, two, three – go!'

Just like earlier, it all came to nothing.

'It's not shifting, Syd,' hollered Nigel. 'And, I hate to say it, but it's kind of urgent we escape…'

'Here, here,' came a shadowing voice.

Claudia jumped. 'Someone _else_ is down there?'

'That sounds like Preston,' replied Sydney, not even looking up to see the radiant smile that flooded across Claudia's face. 'Okay, I've got a plan,' she called down to Nigel. 'But you've got to trust me on this. The door could be sealed with the power of, err, hatred. To get you out, I'm figuring we need to think loving thoughts. _Really_ loving thoughts!'

'Loving thoughts?' squeaked Nigel. 'I can do that…I think?!'

'Well, you've got to try! Let's give it another go - and think nice things! Remember when we first made love, in the long barrow in the Great South Wessex Forest? And the night we got engaged, in the South Seas? That was just _so _romantic. And that wonderful time in Greece, soon after we first hitched up – you knew then we'd always be together!'

Nigel squeezed his eyes shut, and continued to push on the door above. It was no good. All he could think of was the axe on the floor, and Sydney and ruddy Preston – they were still there, in his minds-eye, making love in the Nereid monument, but now the Greek infantry soldiers in the frieze beneath them and the crumbling statues of dancing girls were waving their arms in a celebratory fashion. Where they had mouths left, they were cheering them on!

'You're not trying hard enough,' wailed Preston, swerving unsteadily. Nigel jumped to the muddy ground with a soft thud, and then froze. Preston, too, suddenly stood still as a rock, his mouth agog.

The axe was now suspended about shoulder high in the air, not a yard away from them. Behind it swelled a mottled grey shadow, taking form like a cloud building up to rain. Then it took shape: the shape of a man, towering well over six feet into the air. Two searing green eyes faded into vision, glowering from behind a vibrantly flaming red beard. The axe was now _held_ aloft, wielded by a muscular, chain-mail wearing arm, clutched in a bear-like hand.

Nigel's throat contracted with fear as the bonds of ice that had claimed him before began sizzling against his skin, infiltrating his nerves and senses. He suddenly felt utterly alone: deserted, unloved and surely about to die. A terrible grin began forming on his nemesis' face, stabbing into his heart like the deathblow of a knife…

A sudden touch on the back of his hand changed it all. It was a gesture of timid desperation on Preston's part – he was constitutionally unable to actually take his brother's hand - but it sent unexpected current of warmth flowing up Nigel's arm. The cold fetters that had nearly possessed him melted instantaneously; Nigel turned his head to be reminded that Preston was not only down there with him, he was still standing beside him.

'Wha…what do you want,' stammered the elder Bailey. 'I've not got my wallet…if you let me go, I could get it for you…'

'He's a ghost, you fool,' hissed Nigel. 'He doesn't want money!'

'Oh…' began Preston, as the dreadful apparition turned his searing stare onto the elder brother. Speech then failed him.

'What's going on down there?' Sydney's anxious call sounded all too distant. 'Nigel?'

'Its…its him,' was all Nigel could manage. The ghost, still grinning, stopped in his process of paralyzing Preston, and turned back the main object of his visit.

Morholt lowered his axe but leaned down so close into his face that Nigel feared the edges of the evil prince's horrid undead whiskers would brush against him. He tried to shuffle backwards, but his feet became numb and would not respond.

'Why do you not listen?' Morholt's booming voice ricocheted around the dungeon like a cannon ball. 'She does not love you. She loves the Frenchman!'

Nigel made an executive decision: until Sydney gets in, agree with the big guy with the axe!

'Err…you're, um, probably, right,' he garbled nervously. 'She loves Francois! She looks very good with Preston, as well. I'll ask her to marry _him_…can I go now?'

'Nigel – I'll be right with you,' yelled Sydney. 'Just think those, uh, loving thoughts!'

Nigel cringed, as the ghost shot a look upwards in the direction of the voice, malicious pleasure diluted by a surge of anger. 'It's no good,' he roared. 'You people just will not stop loving each other. I have but no choice!'

'No choice _but_ for what?' whimpered Nigel, darting a sidelong glance to confirm that Preston had retreated into the shadows, leaving him to face the beast alone.

Morholt hoisted the terrible axe up to his shoulder again, an action that, Nigel noted, seemed to require some effort this time. Any chink of optimism, though, was smothered by the obvious intent behind the action.

'Kneel, boy!'

The sinister words were superfluous. A force, which felt akin to a small alpine avalanche, compelled Nigel's already unsteady knees to buckle. He found himself peeping up at his erstwhile executioner through a lock of hair that flopped dejectedly over his eyes.

Although his heart and mind were racing, Nigel realised it was time to try another plan. 'Sydney,' he murmured, meeting the gaze of the monster. 'I love her so much. You _cannot_ come between us. Even if the whole world conspired to tear us apart, even if we were parted forever…I'd…I'd still love her.'

Morholt gave a terrible roar. An arctic blast slammed across the enclosed chamber, sweeping back Nigel's hair and drowning out a portentous creek from the jammed trapped door that would have told him the girls were making progress. He valiantly struggled to think how much he loved her: the shimmer of sunlight on her hair, the way her eyes danced when she was happy, the times she stole his glasses when she wanted to read the inscription on a relic in a hurry. He recalled the passion with which she carried through everything in life - kissing, laughing, making love; the way she would grasp him so tight when they were in danger. How he wished he was in her arms now! His last thoughts, should they come now or in half a century, would be of her. The evil prince would _not_ win!

'No! Please don't do this!' Preston stepped falteringly into the narrow path of light from the torch, devoid of a plan. 'Surely…surely we can come to some sort of arrangement… aaaargh!?'

He wailed as the limp shackles on the walls suddenly jumped into life, coiling around both his wrists and pulling him back against the wall. 'Good God!' gasped Preston, his fear diluted by a genuine effrontery. 'You can't do this! I'm a British citizen…err…oh!'

Preston trailed off as he saw the daemon, labouriously but surely, lift the axe for what surely seemed to be the final time above his brother.

Nigel, momentarily distracted from his meditations on Sydney, found that he possessed the strength to turn his gaze towards his brother. Their eyes met. Preston appeared so terrified, that, on any other occasion, Nigel would have laughed. His mouth was hanging half open, much as it did when he looked superciliously aghast about all the 'ridiculous' things that Nigel said and did. This time, however, Preston simply looked destitute and achingly regretful. It always seemed somehow _better_ between them when they simply didn't speak. Nigel's lips thinned, almost into a smile.

'She loves you.' whispered Preston.

'I know…'

Nigel's focus returned to the form of the ghost – and the deadly weapon looming over him. He noted, with a dull hope, that Morholt seemed to be straining under the weight of the axe, and was wheezing hideously.

However, it was only as the instrument of execution began to totter to towards him, that Nigel realised he could actually move. Gathering his wits, he rolled rapidly to the side as its plummet began. The metal blade missed him by inches; squidging into the mud and leaving a deep, wet rut that bled brown gunge.

The back of Nigel's head knocked against cold, slimy stone - he had rolled into the corner. A dark, formless cloud soared up in front of him; amidst it, the axe raised again. Trapped and helpless, his dreams of Sydney finally began drowning in a breathless fear…

Then everything happened at once.

There was a collective female scream. The trap door flew open and a pair of shapely, legging-clad legs descended on top of the dispersing back cloud, landing as smoothly and dexterously as a cat. As the axe tumble towards him again, it was seized by a confident hand. Sydney turned and threw herself into the disappearing apparition, baring her teeth and swinging the weapon with aplomb.

With a guttural final cry - 'you people just won't stop loving!' - Morholt evaporated into thin air.

'Sydney,' whispered Nigel, even as she scooped him into her arms. He hugged her, tentatively at first, scarcely daring to believe it was all over, then clutched her tight.

'Its okay,' she husked. 'Are you all right?'

'I…I've been better.' Nigel's voice was still shaky. 'But I think so. My head and all my extremities appear to still be attached. And I never… never doubted you…' He wished these words hadn't been a slight lie.

'Me neither,' murmured Sydney, suppressing her own guilt. 'Not for a moment!'

As she slipped her parted lips over his, a cough sounded from behind them. Preston, realising he was now free, stepped forth into the light.

'Really!' he started, forgetting his relief at his own, and Nigel's, safety. 'This is hardly the time and place for snogging…'

A little squeal from the room above obliged Preston to look up. Then his whole world did a backflip.

Preston absorbed the sight of the most exquisite angel, her features more ravishing than the celestial beings ensconced in the stained glass of St Paul's. Her lips were fuller and redder than Kentish cherries; her eyes sparkled azure blue, brighter than the Serpentine in summer. Birds sang, waves crashed, and the London Symphony Orchestra began playing the final movement of Tchaikovsky's sixth Symphony in his head. It was like Romeo meeting Juliet, Nelson meeting Lady Hamilton - he was utterly blown away.

Claudia raised four petite fingers to her lips. He wasn't _quite_ what she'd imagined. But, hey, while that three-piece suit might not be the height of fashion, it certainly had an expensive cut to it – even if it was splattered with mud! He was tall, and not _un_handsome – he'd more than do.

Birds sang, waves crashed and Ricky Martin began serenading in her head…

Preston stretched out a hand to his goddess. Without hesitation, she slipped her fingers into his, and he pressed them ardently to his lips. She squeaked with pleasure.

'I'm sorry to be so forward,' he breathed. 'We haven't been introduced but you… you _must_ be Claudia?'

'And you must be Preston?' she simpered. He reeled at the impact of the voice - surely the chime of the bells of heaven! He'd never heard anything like it - apart from that enchanting scream, of course.

'I am sincerely honoured to meet you,' he stammered. 'And _completely_ at your service!'

Claudius scrunched her nose in delight, wondering where to begin the list of lengthy services Preston could perform for her.

'I trust you are quite well? I heard you scream – nothing would have stopped me coming to you – except that my brother got us embroiled in a spot of bother.'

'Scream?' Claudia appeared confused. 'I guess you must have _really _good hearing. But there's nothing for me to scream about now, right? You'll protect me from the bad guys, won't you, Preston?'

'With my very life, if necessary!'

Nigel, still ensconced in Sydney's arms, looked up at them with a similar abhorrence to that with which he had regarded Morholt. 'I think I'm going to be ill,' he muttered as Sydney caressed him consolingly.

'Preston and Claudia!' he mumbled pathetically. 'Some things were just _not_ meant to be!'

……………………….

'Do you think we killed him?' asked Karen, after Sydney, Nigel and Preston had all clambered up out of the dungeon.

'I have no idea,' replied Sydney, casting an uncertain glance at her fiancé. Nigel shook his head doubtfully.

'From what _I _know of Poltergeists,' piped up Claudia suddenly, ' he must have used up a hell of a lot of energy chasing the guys around like that. Even if we haven't killed him, it'll slow him down for a bit.'

'I didn't know you were an expert,' said Sydney, not entirely surprised.

'Oh, there's a _lot _you don't know about me,' replied Claudia airily. 'Some people think that poltergeists are the spiritual embodiment of a really intense emotion - usually one experienced at the time of death. That Morholt must have been really pissed off when he died! Another theory is that they feed off the power of thunderstorms, so I guess that accounts for why he was way too frisky this evening. Anyhow, we should be safe for a little while.'

'Brains as well as beauty!' exclaimed Preston.

Claudia simpered delightedly. 'You ain't seen nothing yet, honey-bun. There's nothing you can't learn from a few good horror movies and Occult Weekly… oh, and Vanity Fair!'

'Ah, the work of William Makepeace Thackeray,' sighed Preston. 'That is my favourite of the great early 19th-century novels! I'm _so_ glad you're an admirer.'

'Uh, who?' replied Claudia, as Nigel smirked.

'It's never going to work,' he mouthed to Preston, who retaliated with a venomous glare.

'Okay,' said Sydney decisively. 'We need to try and find this relic while the poltergeist is still weakened. Claudia, how long do you think we've got?'

Claudia was just giving this some thought when there was a cry for the spiral staircase.

'Good God! What is going on down here!'

The bald hotel manager stood on the bottom step; his hand raised his forehead, as he spotted the open trapdoor.

'Oh dear, oh dear! Ladies! Gentlemen! Please stay away from this part of the castle. As I told you, it's quite unsafe!'

'Unsafe for lovers, huh?' questioned Sydney

'Yes! Um…no. Really, I _must _ask you to follow me.'

'Fine.' Sydney motioned with her head to the others that they might as well follow. There was little more to seek out in the dungeon, at any rate. When they reached the corridor, however, she was irritated when the man pulled a metallic grate firmly across the entrance to the staircase, and padlocked it.

'Hey,' began Sydney. 'We _are_ historians you know. Surely not _all_ of the old castle is dangerous?'

'I'm sorry madam,' twittered the hotelier. 'But I'm completely uninsured against any interference by…uh…'

'Supernatural means?' offered Karen sardonically.

The manager gawped at her. 'Young lady, the castle is _not_ haunted! But please, Professor Fox, Dr Bailey - you must come down to dinner and greet your guests. There are at least two dozen people waiting for you in the lounge.'

Sydney shot Nigel a familiar look, one that, even after all this time, still made his stomach lurch a little – it meant they'd be back, and through that grate, just as soon as they got a chance.

'We'd better go and welcome everyone.' He ventured a smile.

'Great - let's get this party going,' chirruped Claudia, fluttering long, mascara-clad lashes at the new object of her desire. 'You know,' she whispered. 'I'm no expert on your English, um, wordy stuff, but I'm guessing that a candlelit dinner in a romantic, haunted castle might just be the right sort of place for _snogging_?'

Preston, bright pink and wordless, mustered an embarrassed smile. Sydney slipped a reassuring arm around Nigel, who was rigid with silent irritation, and steered him away. She hoped he hadn't spotted that Claudia's hand was just on the verge of squeezing Preston's backside.

'Hang on in there, Nige' she muttered. 'I think we're in for a bumpy night…'

**Thanks for reading. Please, please review – your thoughts always mean so much to me :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimers: as before. Oh, yes, and this chapter also contains a tribute/rip-off/variation of a certain scene out of 'Four Weddings and a Funeral.'**

**Thank you so much for the reviews of the previous chapter, and of 'Goodbye to All That.' Sorry this chapter has been a while coming - my muse keeps on turning up when I'm too busy to use her, and then deserting me when I'm not. Please let me know what you think!**

……………………………………………………………………………………………

'Phew – retrieving relics from the north face of the Eiger I can do. But saying 'hi' to this many old friends in the course of one evening? Now that's a challenge!'

Sydney favoured Nigel with one of her affectionate, open-mouthed smiles as she settled down next to him on a sizable leather sofa. It was one of those pieces of furniture so large that it seemed it might swallow you. Nigel had been lolling there for the past half-hour, politely rebuffing requests that he rejoin the party, and had already sunk sleepily into the far corner. Sydney found that the natural undulation of the sofa made her slip down next to him. Their bodies were squashed together even before her arm began to curl around his shoulder.

'Tired?'

'Mmmmm,' replied Nigel vaguely. Trying to jolt himself back to wakefulness, he glanced across the large, people-filled drawing room at an antique grandfather clock. 'It's nearly 1 a.m. already,' he noted. 'Ugh - look at that!'

Nigel absorbed the sight of Claudia and Preston, engaged in an increasingly intimate tête-à-tête on a 'chaise longue' in front of the blazing fire. Claudia's voice carried right across the room.

'Wow - Preston, you're amazing! If you hadn't stopped to rescue that boatload of drowning schoolgirls, you really _would_ have found the Lost Ark of the Covenant! And I can't _believe_ how many times you've helped out Sydney and Nigel. It's kind of rude they never told me more about you…'

Nigel huffed noisily. 'Look at that! He's all over her! And what's worse, she's all over _him _- and she seems to have forgotten to put her skirt on!'

'Don't be such a prude,' laughed Sydney, casually noting that the über-trendy red mini-dress, which Claudia had changed into for the party, indeed only just covered her modesty.

'I'm not a prude!' retorted Nigel defensively. 'Preston - now _he's_ a prude!'

'Not tonight he isn't!'

Nigel groaned and covered his eyes as the last of the gap between Preston and Claudia on the 'chaise longue' evaporated. 'I'm going up to bed! I can't stay in the same room as _that _a moment longer!'

'Oh, Nigel! Let them be. You know, if it works out between them, it could be wonderful for all of us. It might even change things between you and Preston.'

'Not likely,' muttered Nigel, peeping out between his fingers.

'Wait and see,' drawled Sydney enigmatically. As he pulled away his hands, she took his chin and turned his head to face hers. She kissed him once, tenderly on the lips. 'We can all change in unexpected ways, remember?'

'I suppose we can,' replied Nigel, starting to feel happily relaxed again. 'Shall we go up to bed now?'

'We've got a relic to find, Nige! You'd better try waking up!'

'Oh, yes.' He shook his head rapidly, trying to stir himself. 'Actually, I've been thinking about that. I wish I'd had another chance to speak to that guide - she said the relic is in a 'sacred place.' Surely the chapel is just too obvious?'

Sydney shrugged. 'I think she _wants_ us to find it - it was just some sort of promise that prevented her from telling us more.'

'I suppose so,' said Nigel, sounding anything but convinced. 'But she certainly knows her Celtic legends. It took me a while to place that name she gave, but now I remember – Braingain! She was Iseult's maid, and devoted to her mistress. According to Béroul, Braingain took her mistress's place in the marital bed under the dark of night, after the Irish princess's forced marriage to King Mark of Cornwall. Apparently, it was so that the King would not find out his bride was no longer a, um…'

'…virgin,' finished Sydney contemplatively, as Nigel trailed off in slight embarrassment. 'Of course! I remember that story, though I didn't recall the maidservant's name. She really was a faithful friend.'

'Too faithful, some might say! I wonder why the guide decided to take her identity?'

Sydney looked at her fiancé curiously. 'Nigel - this afternoon I had to rescue you from the undead poltergeist of Iseult's uncle. Has it is even crossed your mind that she might actually _be_ Brangain.'

'Err, no, it hadn't actually,' said Nigel honestly. 'And I _had_ been trying to forget all about earlier…'

At that instant, an eruption of girlish voices and screams in the hallway signified that another group of Sydney's ex-students, colleagues and fellow relic-enthusiasts had arrived, and were seeking their friend and heroine.

Sydney winced apologetically. 'That must be the party from the Dalhousie University, Nova Scotia - I've at least got to go and say 'hi''

The exclusively feminine sound rendered Nigel mildly terrified. 'How many more people did you invite? And are they _all_ girls? The women at this event are starting to outnumber the men, ten to one!'

Sydney giggled. 'I did invite a lot of guys too. But I'm not sure they were so keen on the, uh, occasion.'

'You mean that most of them were your 'ex's'?'

'No… not _all_ of them. There are plenty of men here, Nige - including one or two I _didn't_ invite.'

'Too true,' conceded Nigel. Apart from Francois, Stewie Harper was currently propping up the bar, having failed in a desperate attempt to hit on Karen.

'And Derek Lloyd messaged me to say he _would_ be here,' continued Sydney. 'Apparently he's found some sort of way to fit us in between his latest international criminal hunts.'

'Well that's something, I suppose. Talking of criminals, have we had any update on the whereabouts of your French former beau - and the, uh, wedding rings?'

'I'm afraid not,' confessed Sydney. 'I guess he really has run off with them. I'll get them back, I promise, but I've asked for those roman-gold rings we found last year in Avignon to be sent over as substitutes for tomorrow. I'm sorry they won't mean quite so much…'

'It doesn't matter,' said Nigel sincerely. 'It's funny, we spend all of our life finding relics, _things_, but sometimes it's not objects that really count, is it?'

'No, it's not,' replied Sydney, smiling adoringly as Nigel yawned widely.

Once he'd finished, he gazed at her blearily. 'I'm dead tired,' he admitted. 'I think I'll head off to the bedroom for forty-winks. You'd better come up and find me when you can get away.'

'Fine. Don't fall too deeply asleep, though. I'll just go greet my friends and be up in five minutes…'

……………………………………………

As soon as the noise of the busy partygoers faded into the background, the creepy atmosphere of the castle closed in around Nigel, accentuating the silence of the night. It suddenly occurred to him that he would rather _not_ go back to the honeymoon suite without Sydney - after all, the painting hung in that particular room was where all the trouble had began. He slackened his pace, perusing some Tudor-era portraits of ruffle-collared dignitaries on the grand, main staircase - he might as well admire the artwork than have to doze outside the bedroom door until Sydney arrived.

As he sauntered along the first corridor of bedrooms, however, something else grabbed his attention. One of the doors was ajar.

'Odd,' thought Nigel, noting the room number. 'That's Claudia's suite.' It occurred to him he ought to check that everything was okay in there. He knew she was still downstairs flirting with Preston. Nevertheless, considering that he would probably forgive her for that in the long term, he decided he would not like his ditzy, blonde friend to have an unwanted encounter with either a mad ghost or a passion-fuelled Frenchman.

Very tentatively, Nigel peeped through the door. Then he gasped.

Never in his life had he seen so much wedding attire. Dresses large and small, of all shades of cream, pink and ivory, were draped over absolutely everything. In the middle of the room, hanging from a crystal chandelier, was a pink, puffball bridesmaid's dress.

Nigel stepped into the room, undeniably curious. Okay, the pink puffball affair, which he thought embarrassingly hideous, _had_ to be Claudia's - if anybody could look good in it, it was probably her! But surely all those fancy wedding dresses were intended for Sydney! He couldn't quite picture her in any of them. He didn't even _want_ to see her in them. It just wasn't her.

Feeling slightly guilty he'd ever uttered the stupid marriage proposal, he absent-mindedly rubbed his fingers over the cool, shiny silk of a dress that was draped over a pile of hatboxes. It did feel wonderfully smooth and sensuous, almost like running his fingers against Sydney's long, lustrous hair…

The sudden squeal of a high-pitched voice in the corridor snatched Nigel out of his moribund imaginings. He knew instantly who it was: Claudia! Nigel panicked. She would skin him alive if she caught him poking around the wedding dresses!

Realising it was too late to leave by the front door, he yanked open the wardrobe. There was no refuge there - it was stuffed full of dresses of all shapes and sizes. The bathroom door was also too far off, so he had only one choice. Just as the door swung fully open, Nigel threw himself under the bed.

In walked a petite pair of sparkly stilettos, followed by a distinctive pair of black brogues, purchased from a well-known shoemakers in Jermyn Street, London. Of course, there was only one person who Nigel knew that always bought his leathers from that particular retailer: Preston!

Preston lingered uneasily in the doorway. 'Are you sure this is quite alright?'

'Why wouldn't it be?' Claudia scooped up an armful of dresses from the king-sized bed and tossed them casually onto the top of the hatboxes. 'Its only right that the Best Man checks out the bridesmaid's dresses before the big day - and makes sure that the chief bridesmaid is quite clear of all her duties. _All of them_.'

The final three words rolled lasciviously of her tongue as Claudia bounced down onto the bed. This caused the bottom of the mattress to sag down, just a little, towards Nigel, who was currently trying not to explode with anger. 'Best Man! Best Man!' he seethed. 'The lying bastard!!'

'Well, if you insist, I'll give them a quick seeing to, err, I mean, a quick look,' Preston shot her a sheepish grin. 'Which one are you going to be wearing tomorrow?'

'I haven't decided yet.' Claudia fluttered her eyelashes girlishly and uncrossed her long, bare legs, stretching them out in front of her. Preston took deep, calming breaths, and tried to think of boring childhood afternoon teas with Aunt Maud to prevent himself hyperventilating. As he sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed, it sunk down a great deal further than before, pressing onto Nigel's shoulders and bottom.

'They're all stunning,' he said, scanning the bridal wear - looking anywhere but at the creamy, painted toes that had started tickling the outside of his thigh. 'But, if I had to pick a favourite, it's going to _have _to be the pink one.' He pointed at the puffball horror hanging from the ceiling. Nigel cringed. Trust Preston to have such God-awful taste. Even Claudia must have rejected that one…

The next instant, Nigel found that he was spread-eagled under a dangerously depressed mattress, his nose buried deep in the shag-pile carpet. On the top of the bed, Claudia bounced on top of Preston, her knees practically in his lap, and her arms flung around his neck.

'Oh my God! You are so totally right! I love that dress to death, but everyone else hated it. They said it was too, err, pink.'

'Then they must all have had a surgical taste bypass,' replied Preston earnestly, now unable to think of anything but the baby-blue eyes and cherry lips that hovered so enticingly close. 'You can never be too pink, Claudia! Oh…Claudia!'

Claudia began to envelop him with noisy kisses. Preston moaned with desire: 'Oooh, ah, this is, um, lovely, but don't you think it's all going rather fast?'

'Too right!' thought Nigel, fighting a growing wave of nausea.

'This isn't fast!' snapped Claudia playfully. 'Believe me, this is _way_ too slow. I've been waiting all my life for you, Preston Bailey!'

Preston stared at her, open-mouthed, not quite believing any of this was real. Yet, there she was: blonde, beautiful, breath-takingly sweet - and all over him!

He gathered her hands into his and kissed them both.

'Claudia,' he declared ardently. 'Marc Antony may have marched armies across the ancient world just for the beauty of Cleopatra's nose and Helen may have launched a thousand ships! But I would gallop to hell and back just for one glimpse of your…'

Under the bed, Nigel gagged, as Claudia seized the object of her desire and smothered his mouth with hers. They rolled back onto the mattress with an almighty 'creek'.

'The tea-lady was right!' cried Claudia, her mind lost in a lustful whirl. 'You're my fate! You're my destiny! Take me, Preston Bailey! Take me now!'

'Oh my love, my darling, my little cupcake!'

Nigel had heard enough - he _had_ to get out of there! Not that he could have stayed if he wanted - he was now squashed so hard against the carpet that there was simply no room to breathe. Past caring whether he was caught or not - and guessing the occupants of the upper side of the bed were too preoccupied to notice, anyway – he wriggled out from under it. Nigel began crawling towards the door on his hands and knees.

He was only a metre from the exit, when a high-pitched squeal told him he'd been rumbled.

'Good God!' exploded Preston, pink lipstick covering his face and his shirt hanging open. 'Nigel! What the hell do you think you're doing?'

'Nigel! You peeping Tom!' wailed Claudia, untangling her fingers from Preston's hair. Then another thought occurred to her. 'Were you peeking at the wedding dresses? Surely you know that it's bad luck for the groom to see this stuff before the wedding!'

'No!' said Nigel angrily, clambering to his feet. 'If you must know, I saw your door was left open and I was just checking for any intruders!'

'Under the bed?' demanded Preston. 'Oh, come on, you don't you expect me to believe that? You deserve a good thrashing for spying on this angel the night before your own wedding!'

'Oh, shut up!' Nigel shot him a particularly withering glare. 'Why the hell would I be spying on Claudia? And who gave _you_ the right to tell her that you're my Best Man!'

'Well, um,' began Preston, finding his self-righteous outburst prematurely undermined. 'Joel still isn't here, and…'

'I don't care!' yelled Nigel. 'I'd ask the concierge before I'd ask you!'

'Preston's _not_ Best Man?' pouted Claudia. 'That's _so_ mean. He _is _your brother! And it's the least you can do after spying on us like this!'

Nigel thrust his fingers back through his hair in frustration; Claudia and Preston glared at him accusingly, a united front. 'I was _not_ spying….oh, what's the use!'

He turned on his heels and was about to depart swiftly when there was a tap at the door.

'Nigel? Is that you in there?' The door opened an inch, and Sydney peeped in.

'Hey,' she said, seeing all the dresses still lain out. 'Surely you're not supposed to be in here…' She broke off as the stench of bad atmosphere overwhelmed her.

'He was just leaving!' bellowed Preston.

'Too right I was! Come on, Syd. Let's leave these two fools to discover just how pathetic they both are in _any_ relationship!'

'Nigel!' Sydney grabbed her fiancé's arm and jolted him back as he pushed past her. 'What the heck is going on here? That wasn't a very nice thing to say!'

'No, it wasn't Ni-gel!' squawked Claudia emphatically. 'It was mean!'

Nigel and Preston said nothing as their eyes met each other's. Sydney all but heard the electric crackle of anger as it simmered between them.

'Nigel,' she said calmly. 'What is going on here?'

'I didn't mean to spy!' he blurted. 'Claudia's door was open and I was just checking for intruders – honestly, I'd forgotten all about the dresses although, I have to admit, when I saw them I was a little… interested. Then I heard voices and I sort of panicked.' He winced as he admitted: 'I hid under the bed.'

A shadow of amusement crept across Sydney's face as she pictured the scene. 'Fair enough,' she concluded. She turned to the others. 'I think it's reasonable that Nigel should have been concerned for Claudia, considering this afternoon's events.'

'I suppose so,' pouted Claudia. 'He didn't have to say such nasty things, though!'

'You were hardly sweetness and light either!' protested Nigel. 'And _that_ idiot,' he continued, pointing to Preston, 'still seems to think he's my Best Man!'

'Well, after everything I've done for _you _over the years,you'd think that it was a given…'

Sydney held up her hand for peace. 'Okay guys - maybe this isn't the best time to start unpicking three decades of conflict. Nigel and I have a relic to find - and I kind of imagine we _all_ need some sleep.'

'Quite,' mumbled Nigel. His better nature forced him to offer Claudia an apologetic smile. 'I'm sorry I said what I did.'

Claudia screwed up her nose prettily. 'I'm sorry I didn't believe you, I guess. But I think you'd better apologise to Preston too. After all, you're going to need his help to find the thingy. He is the world's leading expert in mediaeval relics! And he's helped you _so _many times before…'

Fortunately Sydney, who still had a firm hold on Nigel's arm, managed to squeeze it hard enough to prevent his saying anything else that he might - or might not - regret.

'I'm not sure that Preston coming along is a good idea, Claudia,' she smiled. 'We'll, err, consult him if we need to.'

Nigel mumbled something unrepeatable under his breath. A fortuitous rumble of thunder meant that nobody heard.

Claudia suddenly looked concerned. 'You'd better watch out, Syd. Poltergeists feed on the energy of storms, remember? If the bad guy comes back, getting rid of him could be even harder than it was the first time.' She pulled out a magazine from her bedside table. 'I was checking this out while I was getting ready for the party and, apparently, for really powerful apparitions, the only way is to find the means by which he was killed the first time and repeat it. Now _that_ can finish off even the stickiest of evil spirits…'

'You pay a _lot_ of attention to _Occult Weekly_, don't you?' said Sydney. 'Look,' she turned to Nigel, her expression slightly apologetic. 'I think maybe Claudia and Preston _should_ come along. We really might need a little of their expertise.'

'Can't we just take Claudia?' pleaded Nigel.

'Don't be so horrid! Your brother is the cleverest man alive - and _I_ need somebody to protect me!'

The swiftness with which Sydney bundled Nigel out into the corridor, and placed silencing fingers on his lips, was _just_ enough to repress his infuriated reply.

……………………….

Preston, in all honesty, had never been keen on the idea of accompanying Sydney and Nigel on this particular late-night relic hunt. Indeed, he didn't even think it was the best way to demonstrate his masculine prowess to Claudia - he would have been much happier regaling her with exaggerated tales of his triumphs over a nice cup of tea. Better still, he would have liked to finish what had been started when Nigel so rudely interrupted them. Yes - he was still feeling decidedly frustrated about _that_. After all, he was only a man!

The potential awfulness of the situation was highlighted when Sydney began to pick the lock on the grate that partitioned off the old part of the castle.

'Remind me again why we are not waiting until the morning?' he pleaded.

'Because it's their wedding day, silly!' replied Claudia amicably.

'Oh, that,' mumbled Preston. He began to feel a lot better, however, when he felt Claudia's hand slip into his. Her fingers felt very tiny and cold; he boldly caressed the back of her hand with his thumb. As the thunder crashed again, she looked up at him imploringly - fear bubbled in those baby-blue eyes.

'Don't worry. I'll do _anything_ to protect you, ' he said. He really meant it.

Meanwhile, Sydney was through the barrier and she and Nigel had started up the spiral staircase, their flashlights penetrating the foreboding darkness.

'So, where do you think the old chapel would be?' asked Sydney.

Nigel was about to answer when a voice called out from behind: 'In a fortress of this antiquity, I wouldn't be surprised if the chapel was built separately, outside the walls, vis-à-vis the Manoir de Hilgay.'

'Don't be ridiculous, Preston' scoffed Nigel, as he turned and shone his torch aggressively into his brother's eyes. 'It's far more likely to be tucked away in a turret or outer wall, like at Bodiam Castle, or beside the solar like at Ightham Mote or Penshurst Place. Your knowledge of internal structures appears to be at least three centuries off kilter… '

Sydney rolled her eyes at the pettiness of it all. 'Can we save the contest to find out who's the best architectural historian until later?' she hissed. 'Braingain seemed to imply that it was part of the castle. Let's start by looking behind the Great Hall.'

…………………

Sydney led the way through the decorated arch into the Great Hall. Shining her torch around, she immediately noticed something was different.

'That's weird,' she murmured. 'The weaponry that covered the walls earlier has gone.'

'Maybe the manager took it away for safety reasons,' suggested Nigel. 'It would hardly be surprising, after what happened with that suit of armour earlier.'

'I guess,' replied Syd, unconvinced. 'But look - that sword is still there.' The silver sword, which Nigel had been making for earlier when they candelabra started plummeting towards him, shimmered in the distant reach of the rays. It still hung vertically down the wall, but now had two other swords crossed diagonally over it, so the display resembled a six-pointed star.

'So it is – its been rearranged a bit, though. I don't remember those two other crossed swords on top of it. Why would that be left when all the other weaponry has been moved?'

'I've no idea.'

The sound of muffled laughter from the staircase - obviously Claudia and Preston - ignited Nigel's ire. 'I wish they'd hurry up. Why did you let them come along - I'm not sure Claudia's having read a few articles in _Occult Weekly _will make any difference. As for Preston – well, he's always useless.'

Unexpectedly, Sydney's temper snapped. 'Sometimes,' she hissed. 'I wonder why I'm marrying you! You can be every bit as pathetic and small-minded as your brother. At least he has the virtue of height!'

Sydney gasped, even as the last of the words poured from her mouth. Flashing her torchlight up to her fiancé's face, she saw his brow furrow with hurt.

'I'm so sorry,' she began. 'I don't even know where that came from. Unless…' She seized Nigel's hand and pulled him close to her, as Preston and Claudia crept tentatively through the archway into the Great Hall.

'Maybe you're right,' mumbled Nigel, his gaze cast to the floor; despite her actions, the harsh words still burnt him. 'It's not too late to call it off…'

'No,' insisted Sydney, raising her voice as the storm outside whipped up to new heights. 'We all have to keep close, now - and try not to dwell on any negative emotions. Morholt's here…'

………………………………….

They all kept close to Sydney as she led them through the chamber behind the Great Hall, where Nigel had had his first 'bad experience' with Morholt.

Sydney stretched for Nigel's hand more than once but, having extracted himself once, he kept just out of reach. She desperately hoped he hadn't taken her unheeded, alien words seriously. Nigel, for his part, wasn't entirely sure what he thought about _anything _at that moment - apart from that the sight of Preston and Claudia clinging to each other was decidedly irritating.

'There ought to be a door out of the back of this chamber into the chapel,' he whispered, sensing Sydney's quandary about where to go.

Sydney's light hit a closed wooden door in a low, narrow archway: 'Like that one?'

'_Just_ like that one,' confirmed Nigel, as Sydney turned the dangling, brass loop-handle.

……………………

The small stone apartment had clearly once been a chapel. There was a niche for the holy water by the entrance and jagged scars on the floor where the altar and font had been removed. Beyond that, however, there was little of any significance: no inscriptions, no carvings and no sign of any hidden compartment.

'Maybe this _wasn't_ the original 12th century chapel,' said Preston in an 'I-told-you-so' voice.

'Rubbish!' retaliated Nigel, pointing to the ceiling. 'Those arches are clearly of the period. I think we still have not found the right 'sacred place''.

'Maybe you're right,' said Sydney slowly. 'Tristan and Iseult's love drove them to live outside the rules of their peoples and religion…'

'Absolutely,' interjected Nigel. 'So we need to think what would have been a 'sacred place' for them and those who loved them.'

Sydney shrugged. 'A secret meeting place, maybe?'

'Where were they happiest?' wondered Nigel out-loud, rummaging his memory for the details of the legend. 'I've got it! After they realised that their love could not be concealed from King Mark, Tristan and Iseult ran away into the Great Forest of Cornwall, where Tristan kept them alive through his skill as an archer. So the tale goes, they found a paradise there, huddled together in a simple wooden bower. It was the only place they ever really found happiness - _that_ was their sacred place!'

'Well, it's a shame _you_ don't respect the sanctity of such things!' scoffed Preston. 'Besides, what do you propose? That we catch the next flight back to Heathrow, and head for the A303?'

'He's _not_ suggesting we go to Cornwall,' countered Sydney. 'We shouldn't have been looking for the chapel, we should have been looking for the…'

'Bedchamber!' jutted in Claudia. Preston's foul mood was lightened by her obvious enthusiasm and the delighted wring of his hand. 'Oooh!' she squealed, 'I _like_ this hunt!'

It was then that they all heard the moan: a loud, whining but decidedly human cry.

Claudia's playful spirits vanished. 'What's that?' she squeaked.

'I hate to think,' muttered Nigel. 'Let's go find this 'bower' - before we find we've got into bed with more than _any_ of us can handle!'

……………………………………...

**Thanks for reading. Sorry if that chapter was a bit light on action - I can promise you I will compensating in that department in the next chapter! Please review.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimers: as ever.**

**Thanks so much for the reviews on the previous chapters and sorry this has been so long coming - its been a bit of a struggly, in many respects!! This chapter is for Shivani :) **

CHAPTER SEVEN:

'By my reckoning,' said Nigel as he followed Sydney down yet another dark passage to the side of the Great Hall, 'the bedchamber ought to be around here somewhere…oh!'

As Sydney swooshed aside a decaying red curtain, Preston gasped and Claudia squealed. In an opening behind stood a Knight in rusting armour, standing to attention with a tall spear in one hand. It was nearly completely blocking the bottom of a small, winding staircase.

'It is alive?' whispered Nigel, from behind her shoulder. 'Or is it…uh, undead?'

'Oh my God!' quivered Claudia, 'Preston - please don't let it bite us!'

'Of course I won't, cupcake,' replied Preston, hoping she couldn't hear his teeth chattering with fear.

Sydney raised two cautious fingers and flicked up the flat, featureless visor on the Knight's helmet. There was no leering face - just a dark emptiness. 'Nothing,' she breathed. 'It looks like one of the suits of armour from the balcony - one of those that the manager said couldn't be moved…'

It was then they heard the moaning sound again. Since they'd heard it originally from the chapel, it had sounded again every few minutes. This time, however, it was much louder and clearer than before.

'It's coming from up the staircase,' said Sydney. 'And it sounds… vaguely familiar.'

'Maybe we shouldn't pursue it,' offered Preston. 'After all, it was following that scream earlier that got Nigel and I into that spot of bother – and it wasn't dear Claudia, after all!'

Sydney ignored him as she edged around the suit of armour, and started to climb the steps. 'Come on, guys. My gut tells me somebody is in trouble...'

…………….

'Uh - I think I've found the rest of the weaponry from the Great Hall!'

At the top of the stairs, through a narrow, wooden door they found a chamber furnished with a small, carved four-poster bed. Tapestries decorated with carnal scenes of Adam and Eve cast out of the Garden of Eden covered the walls and, against the far side, was a large wooden chest. However, it was impossible to get to any of this. Two further suits of armour, also disturbingly similar to those which had previously occupied the minstrel's gallery, flanked the bed. More problematically, though, the floor inside the door was heaped high with swords, axes, spears, shields and helmets. They stretched across the floor like a wall, over a metre high. Sydney could only just fully open the door.

'Hello?' called Sydney, still trying to locate the origin of the moan. 'Is anybody there?'

There was no answer. The storm outside had died down and all was quiet, apart from an eerily placid humming noise. It sounded like an electric appliance had been left on – although the room had no amenities less than four hundred years old!

'Weird,' murmured Sydney. 'You hear that buzz?'

Nigel nodded. He and the others watched nervously as Sydney took a step into the room, and stretched out her hand towards the pile of weaponry. She was about to grasp the hilt of one of the Indian forearm swords, when there was a 'crack.' A tiny arc of electricity zipped between her fingers and the sword. Sydney leapt backwards into the doorway.

'Syd – are you okay?' Nigel grabbed her arm and peered anxiously into her face.

Sydney looked bewildered for a moment then flexed her hand, as if to check everything was still working. 'I, uh, I think so. The sword gave me an electric shock!'

'This isn't good,' grimaced Claudia. 'This is a _really _nasty poltergeist. Somehow, he's managed to gobble up all the electric power of the storm, and use it to bring all the horrid pointy stuff here.'

'We've got to get past it,' said Sydney grimly. 'Those knights have been positioned like they are guarding something – or someone - for a reason.'

'Tristan's sword?' asked Nigel.

'Maybe,' shrugged Sydney.

'I don't think so,' piped up Claudia, the authority in her voice growing by the minute. 'My guess is he couldn't bring himself to raise the weapon that killed him. This could be some sort of diversion or…a trap.' Claudia gulped desperately then added as an afterthought: 'And all we've got guarding us is the two most pathetic guys in history!'

'Eh?' Preston was jolted back into the present, having been wondering if any of the more elaborate pieces of armoury could find a good home in the British Museum. 'What was that, cupcake?'

'I, err, I'm not sure.' Claudia looked confused – why did she suddenly feel grateful that Nigel _had _been discovered under the bed before she did anything even she might regret? 'Syd - I think something might be screwing with my mind again… but I'm not sure.'

Nigel sniggered at his bewildered brother in a way that Sydney found usually irritating.

'Okay, everyone,' she said calmly. 'Just try not to think about _anything_ apart from how we're going to beat this thing. There are still some weapons which aren't tied up in this crackling mess - Nigel, remember the sword in the Great Hall?'

'Of course,' said Nigel, narrowing his eyes in thought. 'For some reason, Morholt left that out of the way. You don't think it could be…'

'Tristan's sword?' Sydney shrugged. 'There's only one way to find out. You go and have a look at it. See if you can locate any damage – it would have a portion missing remember – and try and get it off the wall. I'll stay here with Claudia and we'll see if we can find a way to get past this lot.'

'Alone?' winced Nigel. 'I'm not sure it would be wise for any of us to go about alone right now…'

'Good point,' agreed Sydney. 'Preston - you can go with him!'

……………………………………..

'I assume you realise it's all hopeless - you and Claudia, I mean,' said Nigel, matter-of-factly, as he led the way back along the passage towards the Great Hall.

'I realise nothing of the sort,' retaliated Preston. 'She's a wonderful girl – and she's clearly smitten by _me_!'

'Yes – until about lunchtime tomorrow, when she spots her next Mr Destiny! I hate to break this to you,' continued Nigel, clearly relishing the task, 'but Claudia is not exactly known for her constancy.'

'Now look here!' Nigel felt the sharp jab of a finger on his left shoulder. 'Sydney was hardly a blushing virgin when you got your paws on her, was she?'

He turned angrily. 'What the hell do you mean?'

'Well, she's a gorgeous woman – and her previous conquests have hardly been kept a secret, have they? But she loves you…and…and…'

'And what?' demanded Nigel, not giving an inch. 'She told me about that time you asked her to dinner - I know you'd steal her off me, giving a sniff of a chance. Like you did Amanda… and all the rest!'

'Yes, well,' muttered Preston, barely suppressing a chuckle. 'Amanda was hardly the prize we thought her, eh?' His glimmer of humour vanished as Nigel persisted to glare venomously at him. 'All I'm saying is that if you and Sydney can be so perfect together, why can't Claudia and I? I know I've only just met her, but I think…I think…' Preston broke of as the most wonderful realisation flooded his senses: 'I love her, Nigel!'

'Ugh!' Nigel felt like tearing his hair out, but instead he turned abruptly and stalked off down the corridor, muttering audibly: 'It'll never work!'

……………………………

'You think they'll be okay?' asked Claudia, still hovering behind Sydney at the door with the chamber.

'I hope so,' said Sydney, twitching frustratedly as she failed to see a way past the electrically charged pile of weapons. 'I thought it might be safer if we put a little distance between us and our, err, 'other halves,' just until we've got a solid plan. Let's not give Morholt any more ammunition from our emotions!'

'There seems to have been plenty of bad feeling between Preston and Nigel,' said Claudia slowly. 'What if he feeds on that?'

Sydney turned sharply to face her friend. 'You think he's that devious?'

Claudia's shrugged indecisively. 'You're the historian, Syd. All I know is that we're dealing with a nasty undead thing. And I've watched a _lot_ of movies about nasty undead things… '

'We'd better work fast, then. Okay Claudia - you're on. How do we get past that wall of metal without being fried?'

'Err, we could perform an exorcism? Damn.' Claudia sighed loudly. 'I hope things don't get too messy. For once, I _so_ wish I'd changed out of my new Donna Karen mini-dress!'

'Yeah - let's hope this doesn't cause to another fashion emergency,' replied Sydney, deadpan. 'So, how do we go about an, err, exorcism?'

Claudia looked slightly forlorn. 'I'm not really an expert… but you have to say the proper words. Yes, that's it. The words…um, what were they?'

Claudia looked more and more perplexed; Sydney laid an encouraging hand on her arm: 'Come on - you remembered everything about tarot cards when you had too. It must be in there somewhere!'

After a minute of umming, erring and lip-chewing, Claudia's sparkling eyes snapped onto hers. 'I've got it! I've got it… I think we need a priest and smelly incense, or something, for it to work best but you say…' She took a deep breath, and then continued in a voice so deep and serious that Sydney could barely believe it was hers: '_Depart, then, transgressor. Depart, seducer, full of lies and cunning, foe of virtue, persecutor of the innocent_!'

'Woh!' whispered Sydney - Claudia still had it in her to surprise even her oldest friends.

'Go see if the pointy stuff is still all crackly,' suggested Claudia, the return of her usual little-girl voice making her seem all the more fragile.

Sydney reached her hand towards the metallic wall and felt a sharp tingle in her fingers. 'It hasn't worked,' she began. 'Maybe we need to say it in Celtic or something…'

Sydney stopped dead as Claudia gave a stifled cry. Looking back at her friend, Sydney saw that a chunky, gauntleted hand had clamped itself around Claudia's delicate neck. Behind her loomed the apparently empty suit of armour.

'Get your hands off her!'

Sydney swung into a flying kick – it never reached its target. She was jolted back violently as something coiled around her waist, digging into her stomach and snatching her breath.

As Sydney clawed at what appeared to be the thick, black cord of a whip, she heard a terrible, creaking noise behind her.

'Hold on in there, Claudia' shouted Sydney. Failing to free herself, she shot a glance over her shoulder. Slowly, and terribly, the entire wall of weaponry was rising into the air and moving towards them, axes, saws, spears and shields apparently taking on an animated life of their own.

Then Claudia screamed.

……………………..

With only the dim light of a clouded moon shining through the stained-glass windows, the Great Hall was a gloomy, cavernous space; the air felt still, cold and crisp against Nigel's skin. He didn't know if Preston was still behind him. Frankly, despite his antipathy to ghosts and flying candelabras, he didn't care. Preston had never done _anything_ for him, he thought angrily, and he was hardly going to be much use to him now. His raw emotions swelled as he thought of Preston loving Claudia, and her loving him back. No! He wouldn't let it happen. Claudia was his friend - his brother wouldn't have her!

Nigel had all but forgotten the task in hand, when the silvery blade of the sword flashed in the rays of his wildly scanning torch. A sudden awareness of its beauty caused him to inhale sharply; the next moment he had sprinted to its side, and was standing, staring at it breathlessly.

Although pinned beneath two thin, 17th-century French epées, it was obviously an early mediaeval longsword - a fine piece of workmanship, just light enough to wield with one hand. Its long, cruciform hilt was decorated with an intricately carved pattern, resembling interlinked knots. It was a Celtic design - like that on the cross outside.

Could it really be Tristan's sword? There was only one way to find out.

Nigel leaned in close and touched it; there was a slight static fizz as his fingers touched the metal, but not enough convey a shock. Undeterred, Nigel ran his fingers along the flat of the blade, revelling in the near-erotic beauty of the object, its smooth coolness, and the sharpness of its edge, which nearly slit the skin at the lightest of touches.

Then he felt a tiny imperfection against his fingertips. Nigel could feel his heart beating very fast as he leaned in to inspect an expertly rendered repair. A small, jaggedly triangular chunk – hewn of what appeared to be metal of a slightly later date, had been welded into the blade of the sword to replace a gap – the gap left when a portion of the blade had lodged itself fatally in Morholt's skull!

Nigel shivered with expectation: it _was_ Tristan's sword- he just knew it!

In order to get at it properly, Nigel had to lift off the two epées. They were surprisingly hard to pry from their holdings - as if a strong magnet was pulling them back against the wall but, with a little effort, he succeeded.

Nigel reached up and folded his fingers firmly around the hilt of the sword. Even with his arm twisted awkwardly like this, his knuckles facing him, holding the sword felt good – natural, even - as if it had been wrought from the elements just for him.

He was about to pull it triumphantly from its resting place, when a familiar voice barked loudly behind him:

'Careful with that, Nigel! It must be worth a fortune!'

With an unexpected surge of passion, Nigel ripped the sword from its fitting, breaking the leather straps that partially held it in place. Preston, alarmed, took a step back.

'It's priceless,' snarled Nigel. 'And it'll never be yours! This is one thing you won't take from me! It _won't_ be going back to the British Museum in triumph!'

'Err, I never dreamed it would,' said Preston, lying only slightly. 'Why is it you always think the worst of me… oh, and _please _be mindful with that thing. One of us could lose a limb!'

'Yes – one of us might!' replied Nigel, swishing the sword in front of him, his voice strangely skittish, his mind a hurricane of increasingly unfocused hatred. It was as if he was under that bed again, and all he could hear was his brother kissing, moaning, making love - but this time the answering cries were not Claudia's - they were Sydney's!

Something snapped inside. Strangely calm, Nigel stuffed his torch into one of the halters that had held up the swords; yellow rays, stretched out across the bare, wooden floor, resembling the lowlights of a theatre. Stepping into its dusky stream, he took a firm stance with his feet, his right arm curling decorously behind him. With his left hand, he pointed the sword straight at his brother's heart.

'En guard!'

'Nigel…err, what _are _you doing?'

'This!' Nigel jabbed the sword towards his brother, who yelped and darted out of the way. In pursuit, Nigel shuffled sideways and reiterated his gesture.

'This is ridiculous!' squeaked Preston. 'These aren't practice foils, you know? That sword is dangerous – put it down!'

'I don't think so!' yelled Nigel, a wild, untamed fury burning on his usually soft, placid countenance.

'Right, then!' Preston grabbed one of the two French epées with his right hand. Before he had even taken position, Nigel had hopped forward and lightly touched the tip of his elder brother's blade with his – Preston knew instantly it was an invitation to attack.

Hardly believing what he was doing, Preston assumed the correct position like a true professional and then issued a final warning: 'I _was _the under 18's Southern Counties Fencing Champion remember?'

'I remember,' spat Nigel: he had once mustered third prize in an under 14's competition before he gave the sport up, unable to bear the negative comparisons to his brother any longer. 'Still - I'm guessing you're a bit rusty!'

Before Preston could reply, Nigel lunged forward, bending his knee, thrusting the sword directly at Preston's chest. His brother parried neatly, deflecting the blow with a flicking motion of his forearm. Nigel jammed his blade forward again - two, three, and then four more times. Each time Preston blocked it without offering any real reply.

Frustrated at his lack of progress, Nigel disengaged his blade with a flourish, but did not withdraw it. Although he backed off a little, its deadly point was still aimed straight for the kill.

'You've gone mad!' blurted Preston; nevertheless, an un-summoned fire was beginning to corse through his veins, too. All Nigel's dreams had come true, he reasoned, yet the ungrateful little toad continued to resent him – and, now, not only was he attempting to split him up from the girl of his dreams, he was trying to hack him to death!

Preston growled under his breath and found it was a good moment to draw upon an Americanism: 'Bring it on!'

And Nigel did. Bouncing energetically off his the front foot, he charged towards his brother, swiping the sword through the air like a jousting knight on his charger. Preston, years of expert training flooding back into his instincts, ducked the blow – which could have taken his head off - dropping a hand to the floor then springing forward into an immediate, low counter attack. Nigel – nearly too late - blocked defensively with the back of his sword. Preston's aim was below the belt, and Nigel's was a weak move: his arm buckled towards him and he staggered backward at the force of the impact.

A vague consciousness of what he was doing trickled into Nigel's memory, as the sweat began to prick on the back of his neck. Despite the berating cries of 'kill, kill, kill!' that ached through his brain, he thought to himself vacantly: 'I gave this stupid sport up for a reason…'

Preston, having gained what he saw as the upper ground, was now standing a few paces away, eyeing his brother almost predatorily. His sword dropped to his side, he was fully engaged in his own mental struggle: his bastard of a brother had just tried to take his head off – surely it was time he showed for once and for all who was boss! Yet a strong suspicion was struggling against his tidal-wave of anger that told him that the force that attacked him was not entirely _Nigel. _Oh, and after that last lunge, his poor old back was killing him…

'This is ridiculous,' he muttered again.

Nigel was standing on the edge of the stream of light, glaring murderously from under his flopping fringe. Something – mistrust or fear - animated the elder brother to raise his sword, tentatively pointing it ahead, as if to ward off another attack.

Unfortunately, the move ignited a fireball of hatred in Nigel's possessed consciousness. Snarling through gritted teeth he launched himself forward – but, this time, Preston was quicker. He lunged first, and blade hit blade with a resonant clang. Nigel gave a desperate, effortful cry as his brother dexterously wove his sword in a series of circular motions, confounding any attacks of his own, and forcing his wrist backwards until he could hold his weapon no more. His sword fell with a clatter to the floor.

'You bastard!' spluttered Nigel as he turned and scrambled after it. Preston plunged forward furiously, the tip of his blade intent on his brother's unprotected back, even as a distant high-pitched scream pierced the surrounding silence and, fortunately, Preston's soul.

He took control of his faculties at the very last moment – the blade slashed sideways. It tore through Nigel's thin, cotton shirt, skimming lightly across his flesh.

Nigel hissed at the stinging pain as his own awareness flooded back. Leaving the sword, he lifted a shaking hand to his wound. Either his senses were dead, or it was only a scratch: but how close had had Preston been to killing him?

Any revival of anger was stilled by the clattering sound of another blade falling to the floor and a surprisingly gentle hand on his shoulder. 'My God, Nigel…I…I…'

Nigel turned quickly. 'It's okay…I'm sorry. I started it…I never meant to…go for you like that.'

'Me neither.' Preston offered a feeble smile. 'I know we've had our little rifts, but…but…I would never…' He trailed off awkwardly, dropping his voice to a whisper. 'You know who it must be, of course.'

Nigel nodded. 'Of course,' he replied. Recalling he was still not on the best of terms with his brother, he added: 'We've got to keep our…our… _differences_ under control or he's going to take control of us again.'

'Quite, quite', agreed Preston. 'Well, if you're quite all right, what are we waiting for? That scream - it sounded like my Claudia again! We've got to go.'

With that, he grabbed the torch and his sword and sprinted from the room, leaving Nigel regrouping his emotions in the darkness, smarting with pain and irrepressible irritation.

………………………………………..

When Nigel gained on Preston, his brother was standing very still. He was apparently locked in a staring contest with the empty suit of armour that filled the pool of light.

Hearing Nigel's footsteps, he pointing accusingly at the apparently inanimate object.

'It moved again!' He whispered. 'It marched out of the doorway and pointed its spear at me!'

Nigel's immediate concerns were not for his brother. 'Sydney?' He called, speculatively. 'We might have a problem here…'

A muffled reply came from the room at the top of the staircase, low and barely audible: 'We've got a bit of a problem here too!'

Now, it was Nigel who froze – Syd was in real trouble, he knew it.

'We need to get past,' he hissed at Preston. 'I'll sidle by - keep your sword drawn.'

Preston nodded speechlessly, and let his brother take the lead. He held his breath as Nigel crept by, his back flat up against the wall, but still in easy stabbing distance of the spear. Then he followed, starting forward with furtive, shuffling footsteps.

It all happened in an instant: the spear shot out even as Preston stabbed with his sword, a reflex blow, and severed its wooden shaft into. He then gawped up at Nigel, his wide eyes like a stricken rabbit's.

'You're not as rusty as I thought,' observed Nigel, his voice tinged with irony.

'I keep surprising myself,' confessed Preston honestly. 'Let's find the girls.'

………………………………….

Even outside the door, the ominous, electric hum was almost deafening. Nigel, his heart full of foreboding, held his breath as he eased open the bedchamber door. Then he stared in disbelief.

Sydney and Claudia were standing in the middle of the room, back-to-back, their arms lashed together behind them with what appeared to be the 18th-century French riding whip with a carved Egyptian-cat handle. They were surrounded by a halo of ominously levitating weapons, their lethally jagged edges pointed towards their unprotected bodies and bare throats. Sydney's eyes were blazing with frustrated anger. Claudia, pale and trembling, just looked plain terrified.

Before anybody could think of anything appropriate to say, the two other, apparently empty, suits of armour marched from the edge of the room, stopping in front Sydney and Claudia's terrible prison, defying the men to attempt a rescue. It was then Nigel saw, the deep grey cloud, swelling and darkening behind them. An icy wind suddenly blasted down his spine, smothering him with panic.

'Oh my God,' whimpered Claudia. 'This is just like a horror movie, I once saw. He's taking form so he can watch us die!!'

Clueless for the first move, Nigel looked imploringly at Sydney.

'The sword?' She asked, motioning with one eyebrow.

'I…I think so,' said Nigel. 'But…but… what's going on? I don't know what to do!'

'You've got to kill him!' squealed Claudia.

'Go with the flow?' offered Sydney, her dry humour defying the bejewelled, Incan sacrificial dagger whose tip now tickled the soft flesh of her throat.

Nigel couldn't help suppress a smile - hell, he loved that woman! He'd always love her! He'd do anything for her! He'd die for her…

He turned to Preston, who had backed down onto the staircase, blankly terrified. 'Cover me?' whispered Nigel.

'Eh?'

'Cover me! You've got to distract the two Knights, so I can get around the edge and take on Morholt with Tristan's sword!'

'Both at once?' spluttered Preston. 'But… but I'm rusty!'

'No you're not,' pleaded Nigel. He saw his brothers, focus drawn to Claudia - she looked so tiny and vulnerable, the perfect damsel in distress. Something tender moved in Preston's eyes.

'I'll do it!' he said, as resolute as a hardened warrior, and raised his sword, vertically in front of him, so it nearly touched his forehead, and nodded.

Nigel recognised the warrior's salute at once. He returned it with a wry smile, even as he wondered if the first sign of respect that he had remembered his brother giving him might be also be the last he was to receive from anyone! Despite the Genghis Kahn era Mongolian spear that was now pressing into her ribs, the sight made Sydney feel strangely warm inside - though she also kind of wished they'd stop posing and get on with it!

What happened next played out in front of her eyes as if it was in slow motion, or in time to the music of a magisterial passage of Wagnerian opera.

Brandishing their swords, Nigel and Preston did not quite storm into battle. Rather, they stepped furtively over the threshold together - then Nigel made his move. Darting quickly to the side, he was too quick for the clumsily moving Knights that were coming towards him. He squeezed off along the edge of the quagmire of hovering weapons.

Preston, still standing just inside doorway, thought his knees might buckle beneath him as the first Knight swung his sword towards him. He blocked it all the same - as if on autopilot. Then, as the first metallic menace recovered from the counterblow, he swivelled to meet the sword of the second, which swished through the air from the opposite direction. Two foes at once – this was too much! Preston prayed that the suits of armour were even rustier that he was…

'Go Preston!' squealed Claudia. 'Kill 'em!' Preston shot her a strained, lopsided grin and, with a crashing blow, smashed both the first Knights sword, and the gantlet that held it, to the floor. 'Oh my God…you're my hero,' she sighed, even as the second Knight came at him from behind again…

'Go Nigel,' willed Sydney – although unable to move, her eyes were strained sideways upon her fiancé's progress.

Nigel was standing just feet from the dour, ever expanding spectre, its form increasingly resembling that of an enormous man - or beast. It loomed above him, making him look very small. A gaping hole in its blobby head resembled a horrible grin.

Sydney was about a yell that he should go 'in for the kill' when she saw a tiny arc of electric charge crackling from one of the monsters protruding limbs to the floor. Every muscle in her body clenched with a horrible realisation – the essence of the ghost was a living cloud of fatally charged electricity. No wonder Morholt was smiling: if he was going to die, he was taking Nigel with him…

The sword was raised at Nigel's shoulder - his whole being was aglow with determination; he had already started the fateful swing.

'No! It's a trap…'

It was too late: momentum propelled the sword forward, slicing decisively through the poltergeist.

There was a monumental flash. Multicoloured forks of lightning - yellow, gold, silver and red – zigzagged through the sword, from the daemon to the man, engulfing them both completely. As Morholt gave a preternatural roar and imploded with a pop, Nigel was thrown violently backwards, his eyes wide as his body smacked hard against the cold, stone wall below the tapestries.

Sydney cried out, even as the weapons surrounding her and Claudia descended with a clatter.

Ripping her hands from the unravelling whip, she didn't notice as it tore into the skin. Neither did she noticed that one of the suits of armour had descended forward on to Preston – impaling itself on his sword but, pinning him, unharmed but humiliated, to the floor.

She didn't even hear Claudia's impassioned sobs. All that mattered now with Nigel. Her Nigel – the man she was supposed to be marrying – who lay, limp and apparently lifeless, on the bed-chamber floor.

**Thanks for reading. Please review.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimers: as ever.**

**Thanks for those reviews, and sorry this chapter has been so long coming!**

CHAPTER EIGHT.

'Nigel…no…'

Sydney dropped her knees by his side, the panic she usually controlled so well pummelling her senses. In the background, Preston and Claudia were saying something to her - shouting, pleading, instructing. She didn't hear them. At that moment, Nigel filled her whole world - but was he still in it?

He was slumped up against the wall in a half-sitting position; one arm was flopped across his middle, the other flung out at the side. He didn't seem badly burnt anywhere, but his eyes were shut, and he didn't appear to be moving at all.

She felt her throat contract with horror but she knew she had to act now: she had to slam away her emotions - she had to be Sydney Fox again.

'Breathing… is he breathing?'

Sydney murmured to herself like a mother prompting a child to carry out the simplest of chores. She leant in close - there was no warmth on her cheek, and her own heart lurched.

'Nigel… I'm _not _going to let you leave me…'

She dragged him down flat on the floor so his chin was tipped back, placed her mouth over his and gave two, sharp puffs. Then, with dread, she checked the pulse on the side of his neck.

With a little cry of joy, she found a faint beat. He was okay - the voltage had not been great enough to stop his heart! She just had to get him breathing…urgently.

Resting her open lips on his again, she gave five, longer, harder blows, and then pulled away. Nothing. He seemed to have turned a shade paler, even since even he last time she looked at him; his skin and lips were almost greyish. Anxiety began to reclaim her and she became vaguely aware of Preston, now hovering at her shoulder.

'Keep trying,' he was saying. 'Please, Sydney… he can't…'

Despite her agony, she didn't need any prompting: 'He sure as heck is _not _dying,' she growled. 'It's supposed to be our wedding day! Come on, Nigel…'

Sydney tried again. Five more breaths - five more spurts of hope, forged from the strongest passions of her soul.

Still nothing. She stared adamantly at her fiancé, and then up at his brother and her friend - two pairs of wide, scared blue eyes bored into her, imploring her to succeed.

'Try it again, Syd,' stammered Claudia. Sydney nodded silently.

She'd given just one more puff, however, when Nigel's body juddered into life with a convulsive spasm. His eyes snapped open as he drew a ragged, uneven breath, and began to cough violently. Claudia squealed; Preston shuddered with relief.

'It's okay,' gasped Sydney, as much for her benefit as his. She waited until the coughing abated slightly, and eased him onto his side so his head rested on her lap, rubbing his back reassuringly. 'That was a close one,' she hushed. 'But, hey, I have to admit, it was kind of impressive.'

Nigel led out long, steady breath: 'Did I get him?'

'Yeah, you were great!' smiled Sydney, 'it's a shame he tried to take you with him.'

Nigel looked up at her intently: 'I felt it - just for a moment. He used the lightening to try to pull me down to hell with him…'

'That must have been scary, honeybun,' butted in Claudia patting his arm sympathetically. 'But you like _totally _imploded him! If there'd been more gross stuff - flying blood and intestines and all - it would have been just like a really cool horror movie…uh, I don't mean I wanted _your _guts flying about, of course, just the evil guy's…'

'Quite, quite,' nodded Preston, earnestly. 'It really wasn't a bad move. Well done.'

Nigel feigned a cheeky, shocked expression for Sydney's benefit, and then grinned amusedly at his brother. 'That's twice in one day you've complimented me, Preston. Are you feeling alright?'

'Hey, that's mean,' jutted in Claudia, before even Preston could complain. 'Preston was a hero, too – he completely wasted those tin-can guys!'

'Yes - I did contribute in my _small _way,' retorted Preston, without an ounce of modesty. 'But if you want to be like _that_ about it…'

'Hey, guys, give him a break.' Sydney shook her head, incredulous at the swift revival of hostilities. 'Two minutes ago he wasn't breathing, remember?'

Preston grimaced, slightly guiltily - he _was _trying, really he was. 'I remember…well, I suppose compliments are also due to Podge…uh, I mean Nigel, for proving that fine piece actually _was _Morholt's sword.'

'Of course, the sword!' Nigel sat up, then groaned at the sudden, buzzing thud in his head and the stabbing brightness of the low-burning lights. He flopped back down into Sydney's lap, his hand over his eyes.

'Take it easy,' she soothed. 'The sword's right here - Preston, can you pick it up? Be careful, just in case its still charged with electricity.'

Very tentatively, Preston laid a finger on the hilt of the sword. There wasn't as much as a spark, so he picked it up confidently. 'What a find,' he commented. 'And, before you accuse me of anything, I wouldn't _dream _of taking it back with me to the British Museum!'

'Glad to hear it,' mumbled Nigel, slowly withdrawing his hand from his face so he could have a better view. 'Syd – look! The missing chunk - it's fallen out again!'

'So it has!' She ruffled his hair excitedly. 'So now it's just as it was after Tristan originally killed the Irish prince - let's hope he stays dead this time! I wonder if the sword being repaired had anything to do with his coming back?'

Claudia cocked her head to one side, curious: 'It could have. That sounds like just the sort of thing I read about in _Occult Weekly _- I'll have to check out the back issues.'

'Maybe you could write a piece for them,' laughed Sydney. 'Claudia - the world's leading expert on poltergeists and all things that go bump in the night!'

'Ew – no way! If I ever write for a magazine, it will _have _to be _Vogue_. Occult is just a hobby - _fashion _is my life!'

'A very good sentiment,' agreed Preston. 'Well, if Nigel is alright, then, hadn't we better all go to bed?'

'Mmmmm….bed!' drawled Claudia. 'Now _that's_ an idea I like…'

Even Preston blanched this time - what _had _he taken on? - whereas Nigel was sure the notion would give him a turn for the worse. Sydney, however, had other ideas: 'No way. We've come this far and we're going to find this darned relic!' She lightly patted Nigel's cheek. 'You up for it?'

'Uh, I'm not sure,' murmured Nigel, squeezing the bridge of his nose. 'To be honest, I could do with a bit more of a lie down, first.'

'Well, we _are _in a bedchamber…'

Sydney slipped an arm around his waist and helped him up so he could lie down on the mattress of the chunky, wooden four-poster bed.

'Comfy?' she asked, perching on the bed beside him.

'Not bad,' replied Nigel. 'The mattress is a really lumpy and itchy. I guess it must be straw under the fabric.'

'Yeah, this bed is old,' observed Sydney. 'It could even have been Queen Tara's, built with the castle in the 12th century…'

Nigel knew exactly what was meant by that spark in her eyes: 'Queen Tara's bower?'

'It could be. It's worth taking a closer look at it.'

Sydney began to run her fingers over crude carvings of mediaeval-looking people and animals on the light-chestnut bedpost, probing it closely with touch and vision. They mainly resembled hooded peasants, with their cattle and donkeys, and women carrying baskets full of apples, but in the middle of the bed-head were a couple of beautiful lovebirds, protruding from the surrounding carving so that they were almost three-dimensional. Reaching up with one hand, she gently pressed and twisted the striking lovebirds but nothing happened. There was no sign of any inscription or compartment anywhere, either.

'Can I be of any assistance?' asked Preston.

'I'm sure you can,' butted in Claudia proudly. 'You are the world's foremost expert in mediaeval relics '

Nigel scowled at his brother who looked mildly embarrassed.

'There's nothing obvious here, so one of you could hold the torch while I look under the bed?' suggested Sydney.

'Under the bed? In this dress?' snapped Claudia. 'No way! I'm _not _Nigel, you know, I have my standards!'

'What's _that_ supposed to mean?' demanded Nigel.

'No offence, but my clothes cost a _lot _more than yours do! And I'm guessing you do a lot of crawling on the floor for Sydney, so you're used to it.'

Nigel wasn't quite sure what to make of this comment, but fortunately Sydney came to the rescue: 'Nigel is in no condition to be clambering under the bed for anyone, so maybe the _expert _could do it?' She smiled sarcastically at Preston, who returned the gesture.

'It would be a pleasure,' he muttered and, taking the torch, he clambered down onto his hands and knees.

Nigel suppressed a laugh at the sight of his brother crawling on the floor. 'Of course,' he said in a superior tone, 'it wouldn't be necessary to tell such an _expert _that Queen Tara often employed the famous Irish trap-builder, Ignatius O'Neal, or to remind him of the simple techniques one should adopt when negotiating his handiwork in order to prevent oneself being decapitated.'

Preston, who was just sticking his nose under the bedstead with the torch, shot out again in a flash. 'What?!?'

'Ah, not such an expert after all,' mocked Nigel, as Sydney slapped his hand.

'Don't be cruel,' she laughed. 'O'Neal did build _some _lethal traps, but usually he was a master of beautifully constructed locks and safes, which could only be accessed by the most subtle, intricate means. Just keep your eyes open for anything unusual.'

……………………………………………….

Rolling on her back, and with the help of Preston's light, Sydney could make out an exquisite carving under the bottom of the bedstead, about the size of the lid of a large jewellery box. It depicted two lovers, embroiled in each other's arms, sitting on a bower of leaves in a beautiful woodland setting.

'Tristan and Iseult,' she breathed, as she delicately pried her fingernails around the edge of the carving. 'It looks like the cover of a hidden compartment, but there's no way to get it open. I wonder - maybe we should look under the mattress on the top-side of the bed-frame?'

With Nigel invigorated into new life by the news of the discovery, it didn't take much time for to pull off the scratchy, straw mattress and reveal what lay beneath: another copy of the carving, but this time with pronounced grooves around the representation of the intertwined couple, as if it was a button to be pressed.

'Surely that releases something?' observed Nigel.

Sydney shot him a sceptical glance. 'Seems a bit easy to me.' She pressed it hard, then lightly, but to no avail.

'I guess nothing is ever easy,' groaned Nigel. 'What now?'

Sydney was intrigued but not perturbed. 'Ignatius O'Neal was a master of his art. To get the trap open, you probably need to need to place _exactly _the right sort of pressure on the release button. I think we need to put the mattress back on.'

'Surely the mattress couldn't release it,' interjected Preston. 'It was there before. The hidden compartment would have been hanging wide open…'

'Exactly,' said Sydney. 'It needs somebody to be on top of the mattress – doing, uh, just the right thing.'

'This gets better and better!' squealed Claudia, as Sydney hauled the mattress back on. 'Can Preston and I try it, go on…pleeease!'

Nigel looked horrified. 'I hope you're not going to say yes to that - or make me watch!' Claudia was already on the bed, bouncing up and down, with her slender, bare legs stretched out in front of her, while Preston leered at her peevishly.

'Uh, no,' cringed Sydney. 'Move it Claudia - I think Nigel and I had better do this, in case of any, err, danger.'

'No fair,' pouted Claudia, but sprang off the mattress nevertheless.

While Nigel was still smirking at his disappointed-looking brother, Sydney seized him by the shoulders and pushed him back down onto the bed. She landed on top, leaning above him at arm's length, her lips parted in a breathless smile.

'Err, what do we do now?' asked Nigel. He lowered voice to an undertone that only she could hear: 'I mean, I couldn't possibly - not with _them _looking! And then, uh, if we're going to be conventional about these things, shouldn't I go on top for a change?'

'I'm not sure we'll have to go _all_ the way,' husked Sydney seductively. 'But… its going to be fun finding out… Preston!' Her loose hair swished sideways as she glanced back over her shoulder.

'Eh…oh, yes?' Preston, who had been lasciviously sneaking an arm around Claudia's shoulders, withdrew it quickly and assumed a studied, attentive expression.

'Could you climb back under the bed please and tell me when the compartment opens?' Preston's mouth hovered half open, and his upper lip curled slightly: she could see just how much he hated the idea - but would he _dare _argue with her?

'Yes, of course,' he mumbled. 'Twice in one day is a bit much, but I can't have my Claudia crawling in the dust.'

'Now _that _is a gentleman,' cooed the blonde as Preston clambered back down onto the floor and began wriggling under the bed again.

Nigel bit his bottom lip, smothering an explosive laugh at the thought of his brother being put through the same degradation he'd had to experience earlier. 'Good call,' he sniggered to Syd. 'Right - where do we begin?'

'Well,' she said slowly, lowering her glistening lips towards those of the object of her affection. 'Sex is great - but it doesn't always equate with love. I'm guessing Tara would have wanted anybody who found the relic to have captured some of her ancestor's true tenderness and devotion…'

'The kiss of true love?' interrupted Claudia. 'Damn – its so unfair! Why couldn't I try it…'

'Later, Claudia,' hissed Sydney. 'You're kind of spoiling the atmosphere… now where was I.'

'Right here…' Nigel soft words melted away the edges of her ever-sharp consciousness, as his hand gently cupped the back of her neck, pulling her into a slow, intimate kiss. She collapsed helplessly on top of him, overwhelmed by the sensation of his sweet tongue moving against her own, and clasped him to her as if she would cease to exist without him. She didn't even hear the sagging mattress beneath them creaking loudly, followed by a tiny 'pop'…

It was an annoying awakening when Preston yelled 'Eureka!' from under the bed - Sydney did not reluctantly pull herself away until several seconds later. Even then, Nigel's eager lips followed her own, his eyes hanging seductively half-open.

'Hadn't we better make sure,' he whispered.

Sydney laughed. 'I think you've done enough already, Nige!'

'Aw - the kiss of true love! You totally did it!' squeaked Claudia, as Preston emerged from under the bed, a small, bowl-shaped crystal decanter with a long, thin neck gripped in his hand. Slopping in the bottom was a thick, red liquid.

'The love potion of Tristan and Iseult!' cried Claudia. 'Preston! You did it!'

'Well, I certainly seem to have got my hands on something interesting,' he said proudly. 'Although I'm sure that Sydney and Nigel did their bit.'

'Oh, nothing compared to your achievements,' said Nigel with obvious, but humourous sarcasm. He hugged Sydney to him excitedly. It _is _amazing, but how are we going to find out if it works or not?'

The joyful atmosphere was shattered as a bone-crunching moan wrenched at their ears and Claudia shrieked. 'Oh God,' she quaked. 'The evil undead guy is back…'

'No,' said Sydney, swooping the decanter from Preston and handing it to Nigel for safekeeping. 'I'm sure that noise is human - and it's coming from the chest!'

……………………………………

Opening the chest, which was a thick, dark mahogany, didn't come easily, although there were plenty of spare axes around to help Sydney hack through the its lock. All the while, the moaning and muttering from within did not cease. By the time she was nearly through they had evolved into a distinct, French accented cries of 'Sydney!'

'I thought I knew those moans,' admitted Sydney. 'Its François'.

Nigel, who had also now realised who was behind the horrendous noise, didn't look too thrilled at the prospect of seeing Syd's ex-lover and sat back down on the bed, staring wanly at the new, unfolding events. Preston, however, looked even more unhappy when Claudia finally worked it all out and raised a perplexed hand to her cheek, announcing: 'Oh God! It's the cute French guy, and he's in the chest. In a _dark place_! What if I've got it all wrong… maybe _he's _supposed to be my destiny!'

'No, please don't say that. It's me! I'll prove it…I'll do anything!' pleaded Preston, as Sydney finally hacked into the chest.

Inside, indeed, was François. For somebody who had been howling as if he was in the throes of death, he looked very well composed, if a little sleepy. Nevertheless, he had not lost his 'touch'.

'Sydney,' he cried, seizing her. 'You came for me! This is the second time you have saved my life. We are bound - bound to be together!' She snatched both her hands away as he attempted to kiss them, and his eyes wandered to Claudia: 'Oh, you have not introduced me to your beautiful friend…'

'François - this is Claudia,' she replied hastily. 'Now do you mind telling me how you came to be here and then GIVING ME MY WEDDING RINGS BACK!' She seized him by the collar as she yelled the final words.

'But I do not have them! The evil bad guy - he took them when he shut me in for sniffing too near his treasure. I called and called but nobody came, and then I fell asleep. You _know _what a heavy sleeper I am…'

'I'm trying to forget,' snapped Sydney, tightening her grip. 'And I think you're lying about something – THE RINGS?'

'But you don't want to marry _him,_' he sneered, motioning with his head to Nigel. 'He will never make you happy! If you are the queen of the castle, he is no more than the stable-boy and, his brother - he is, the court jester!'

'You're wrong,' said Sydney placidly, releasing her hold on him. 'Nigel is more of a prince than anyone with blueblood, and braver than a knight in shining armour. You can't compete, François. And _that's _final!'

With a dramatic moan, François stuck his hand in the pocket of his leather jacket and bought out the little pouch with the rings in it: 'You are making a mistake, Sydney. One day you will know that I only stole these because I loved you…' He broke off, and turned with a flourish. 'Claudia! Ma chérie! You have eyes like sapphires and lips that just demand to be kissed! You and I must get to know each other well. _Very _well…'

Claudia scrunched her nose: 'Uh, I've kind of got a _thing _going with somebody else right now…' She didn't sound very committed.

'Then you must end it!' cried François, brandishing a finger in the air decisively. Then he caught sight of the decanter in Nigel's hand. 'That looks very old, Sydney, what _is _it?'

'It's the love potion of Tristan and Iseult,' blurted out Claudia, before anybody could slap a hand over her mouth. 'We need to find out if it works or not…'

'Thank you, Claudia,' smiled Sydney sardonically. 'Fortunately, I don't think this will interest my friend Francois. It isn't _valuable_ enough, I believe, to bring on his itchy feet syndrome…'

'You underestimate my knowledge, Sydney,' protested François. 'Relics of true lovers always find their market – although that is irrelevant. Finding out if the potion works interests me – and _that _is easy! Since you've refused to admit your love for me, Sydney, I will drink it with this beautiful, blonde princess! It will enhance the current of true _amour_ that I feel flowing between us…'

'You'll do nothing of the kind!' interrupted Preston boldly. He gently seized Claudia's arms, swivelling her towards him, looking pleadingly into her eyes: 'I don't need a potion to be sure that I love you, Claudia! Please, don't drink it, but if you take it with anyone, please pick me.'

'Oooooh,' whined Claudia, confused beyond any comprehension. 'I don't know… I don't know anything anymore. Sydney - what should I do? I'm so tired of waiting for the right guy.'

'I'm sorry, but I can't make up your mind for you,' began Sydney. 'Although I wouldn't recommend that you drink that thing…Claudia?…no!'

Sydney snatched for her friends arm, but it was already too late. She had grabbed it from Nigel, popped off the delicate, crystal stopper and tipped half the contents of the flask into her mouth.

'Eeeeeeew! That was so gross!!!' Claudia smacked her mouth with the back of her hand and plonked her petite bottom down on the bed. 'I think I'm going to puke!'

'My poor, silly darling!' cried Preston, throwing his arms around her. 'This is terrible - something 1300 years old can't be good for the digestion!' Claudia began whimpering into his shoulder.

'I don't think anybody else here should drink that…' began Sydney, reaching to take the file from Claudia before more damage was done. However, she was bested by a remarkably swift move from François.

He seized the glass container and was about to down the rest of its contents when Preston, suddenly relinquishing his love, launched himself at François and sent him flying with a rugby tackle around the legs. The Frenchman tumbled to the ground, narrowly avoiding the pile of fallen weaponry, but held the vile firm: it toppled a little but did not spill.

'Give me that, you scoundrel!' bellowed Preston, clambering over his nemesis to reach for the sacred potion and wishing he could reach a sword. François, however, merely swore in French, and elbowed Preston between the legs. François then downed the rest of the liquid a split-second before Sydney, who had also launched herself into the fray and taken a firm grip of his hair, snatched the empty vile from his hand.

'That was low, François,' growled Sydney. 'Claudia - it doesn't work! This is going to prove it doesn't work!'

François merely grinned at the confused blonde: 'Oh, but it does! You can feel it, can't you my love…'

'No, she can't!' protested Preston, his voice rather strained as he attempted to straighten himself. 'You can't…can you, Claudia?'

'Oh God, this is all making my head hurt,' moaned Nigel, flopping flat down on the bed beside Claudia. 'Wedding or not, can't we just sort this all out in the morning…huh?'

Nigel lifted his head at the sound of voices and heavy footsteps on the stairs. As Sydney grabbed a sword - just in case - two familiar figures entering the room.

'Okay, François, your number's up!'

As Claudia squealed for the umpteenth time that evening, Derek Lloyd pointed his gun at the Frenchman, who pointed to his chest and the bewildered manner: 'Moi?'

'Yeah – _'moi'_!' grinned Derek, looking particularly satisfied with himself. Behind him, hovered Karen, who was also rather pleased with her evening's work, despite being rather shocked by the state of the bedchamber.

'Err, Karen – what's going on?' asked Sydney.

'Uh - I could ask you the same thing! But, basically, Derek thinks your dodgy ex-boyfriend here can give them some information about a really nasty international crime-gang he's after- it seems François has been handling stolen relics from the worst sort of people, lately. And then, when I told him about the stolen rings, we decided to join forces to find him… but it seems you still beat us to it!'

Derek already had the cuffs on François, who was protesting loudly. 'Did you get your rings back?' he asked.

'Oh yeah,' she replied. 'And I think it would be best for _all _of us if you get this lowlife out of here.'

'With pleasure,' snarled Derek, and winked at Karen who blushed a pretty shade of pink. 'I'll be back ASAP. Can't promise I'll make it the ceremony, but I'll be here for the party…'

'Oh, it's like _that_, is it…' began Sydney jokily - but stopped short when she realised that Claudia had burst into floods of tears. Preston was at her side, comforting her, but it didn't seem to make much difference.

'_Now _how am I supposed to know who my destiny is?' she wailed. 'And what it if the love-potion works. What if I find myself totally in love with a guy in jail?'

'Sorry, sweetheart,' said Derek, sympathetic but businesslike. 'This man is going down - although, if he talks, it will only be a few months.'

Claudia just sobbed all the louder. Preston, sensing her shrink from his touch, felt a destitute, sadness engulf him. He knew it had been too good to be true.

………………………………………

Even Sydney yawned widely as they finally arrived back at their bedroom door. Nigel, who had been feeling shaky since the lightning 'incident', dropped his head on her shoulder, his eyes falling shut, even as she pulled the keys from her pocket.

'God, I'm tired,' he sighed. ' I think I could sleep for a week.'

'No chance of that,' smiled Sydney. 'You've got to get up and marry me in, oh, about seven hours!'

Nigel managed not to groan. 'Lovely,' he murmured. 'And at least we got the rings back and found the sword and the relic - even if Claudia and François did drink most of it.'

'Yeah, that was unfortunate,' said Sydney, flinging the door open and guiding Nigel over to the bed. 'I hope Claudia is going to be alright. And Preston.'

'Oh, _he'll _get over it,' mumbled Nigel into his pillow. 'And Karen went up for a girlie chat with Claudia, right? She'll cheer her up. Surely another one of your unnecessarily burly 'exes' will catch her eye tomorrow, and she'll forget all about it.'

'I don't know,' said Sydney thoughtfully, stretching out full length behind Nigel. Her arms slipped under his and she began stroking on his chest. ' I just hope that Brangrain was right and the potion _doesn't _work. Otherwise, Claudia is going to be pretty screwed up - and I kind of hoped it would work out between her and Preston.'

Nigel's eyes flew wide with horror: 'I can't believe you just said that! It was horrific!'

'No it wasn't,' said Sydney firmly. 'It was just a bit…sudden. If they do decide to try again, you'll get used to it. But I think Claudia needs to learn that real love isn't about magic potions or even sudden lightning-strikes of fate…uh, sorry.' She felt Nigel tense at the remembrance of his bad experience, but continued. 'Love is about getting to know each other, muddling through, putting up with each other's funny ways…'

'What do you mean? _I _don't have any funny ways,' grumbled Nigel, shifting a little to face her, although his eyes were drawn to something beyond. Sydney giggled and was about to reel off a list of his most 'endearing' traits when he cried: 'Oh my god, Syd! Look at _that _- the painting!'

'Wow!' even Sydney was close to speechless. The picture, which had once portrayed the evil Morholt with his vicious axe, was completely transformed. The Irish prince had vanished and, in his place, was a romantic scene of two lovers together on the deck of a wooden sailing-ship. The azure-blue sea and the rugged cliffs of Ireland – complete with a turreted castle eerily similar to that in which Syd and Nigel now resided - set a dramatic backdrop to the youthful beauty of the dark-haired Tristan, clad in a shining silver suit of armour. His fragile love, Iseult, faced him; dressed in a flowing scarlet gown, her delicate, white-lace veil billowed in the harsh, ocean breeze. They clasped between them a golden goblet and, behind them, rested a small decanter - identical to the one Sydney and Nigel had found earlier - filled with a bright, scarlet liquid. They were poised to drink from the cup: to drink the potion.

'Even if it did work, they didn't need it,' said Sydney wistfully. 'They were already in love - even the artist captures that somehow, centuries afterwards. Look at their eyes.'

'I think you're right,' yawned Nigel happily. 'And I'm going to sleep all the better now I know that beast is not staring at me!' He shivered, even as Sydney snuggled close to him, her cheek pressed against his. 'When he tried to pull me with him, there was no time to fight, I just thought of one thing – you. There wasn't time to be scared of death, just of leaving you… then everything went black.'

'You won the battle,' assured Sydney. 'And it's going to take more than an un-dead, evil prince who has harboured the power of lightning to come between us, that's for sure. But I guess we'd _both _better get some sleep… '

'I think we'd better,' agreed Nigel, as he tried to push away the bad memories. 'I've got a nasty feeling that, in its own way, tomorrow might be even more trying than today…'

**Thanks for reading. Please review, and I'll try and update sooner this time.**

**If anybody is interested, I will put a link to the painting of Tristan and Iseult described in this chapter on my profile page! I thought it was rather nice :)**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimers: as ever.**

**Thanks for those reviews :)**

CHAPTER NINE:

'Hey Nigel, anyone sitting here?'

'No, not at all,' replied Nigel cheerily. He was munching his breakfast, and currently pronging a large, ketchup-drenched sausage with his fork. 'Sydney just left to go and pick the dreaded wedding dress!'

Karen, a bowl of healthy fruit salad in her hand, pulled up the seat next to Nigel at a large, round table in the plush, mirror-lined dining room. It was still quiet: most of Sydney and Nigel's friends and family had had a very late night and were correspondingly late down to breakfast.

'So she's gone to Claudia's room, huh?' mused Karen. 'I'm not sure she'll find her there. Last thing I saw, Claudia was walking in the garden with your brother.'

'With Preston!' spluttered Nigel, nearly choking on his banger. 'I thought that was all over!'

'Thought or hoped?' asked Karen, arching a perceptive eyebrow. 'I'm afraid it's all _on_ again.'

'I do hope you didn't encourage her,' moaned Nigel, pushing away his plate in disgust. 'It will end in disaster, you know?'

'I don't think it will. Claudia and I chatted for hours, not just about guys, but about life, the universe and everything, and you know what we decided?'

'I hate to think,' muttered Nigel.

'We decided that Syd is right,' smiled Karen. 'With love you just have to 'go with the flow', see what turns up and turns out. If its meant to happen, love will find a way…'

'Lovely,' said Nigel, curling his lip sarcastically. 'And how did my brother worm his way back through this tide of banalities?'

Karen's lips went very thin, as Nigel cursed himself. 'Sorry,' he grimaced, rubbing his fingers across his forehead. 'I'm just tired, I guess - I just can't get used to the idea of Preston and Claudia together. It makes my skin crawl.'

'Rats, spiders and skeletons, Nigel, _they_ make your skin crawl. Two people you care about in love - _that_ should make you happy.'

'I know, I know,' groaned Nigel. 'But last night Claudia was convinced that the love potion would bind her to François forever. What went wrong, err, I mean right.'

Karen smiled knowingly. 'Well, about 6 a.m. there was this hideous noise outside the window - a scream and a crash. For a moment, we both thought it was the haunting again, but it just didn't sound right. And when we looked out, there was your brother, lying on his back in the bushes below the window, howling in pain. It seemed that he tried to climb up the drainpipe, a single rose between his lips, in order to demonstrate to Claudia just how much he loved her.'

'Good God, was he alright?' Nigel sounded genuinely concerned, although a part of him was desperate to laugh.

'Oh, yes, he was fine. Well, he whined about his back a bit, but not much more than he had earlier. Then Claudia accepted his rose - and I departed for a couple of hours sleep, leaving them to it. The rest, as they say, is…'

'…history,' finished Nigel, unable to conceal his despondency. 'Oh well, I guess it proves that the love potion doesn't work, at least. I'll try not to let it spoil the day - for Sydney's sake.'

'That would be nice,' said Karen slowly, and Nigel suddenly noticed that her large, blue eyes had grown particularly bright, sparkly - and mournful. 'You're not the only one who is going to find this day a bit difficult…'

Nigel frowned kindly. 'What is it? Why is today sad for you?' He slipped his hand over hers. 'Please tell me, I am your friend.'

'Yeah,' choked Karen, a narrow smile smothering her tears. 'You're my friend. And so is Sydney – my _best_ friends. You always were a little blind, Nigel Bailey.'

'Oh,' was all that he could manage. He didn't remove his hand from hers, but she felt it tense. 'I never… I never realised. I mean, I knew we, err, flirted, and there was that time we kissed, but…'

Karen shook her head, her expression lightening. 'No, I know you never realised. And I'm glad - it wouldn't have made any difference. I figured out pretty early on that you belong to Sydney, and she belongs to you. It didn't make it any easier, though.'

'Karen…I…I…'

'It's okay,' she whispered, leaning across and kissing him on the cheek. His instinctive blush both warmed her and saddened her. 'I'll find somebody else, one day. You're not the _only_ cute guy in this world, Nigel - but you are a rather special one. Syd's a lucky lady.'

She broke the tension, removing her hand and spooning a large portion of grapefruit into her mouth. She couldn't help giggling, as Nigel stared at her guiltily: 'Come on, finish your breakfast,' she chided. 'You've got less than an hour to turn into a handsome prince, and you've not even used a razor this morning…'

…………………………..

Sydney puffed out her cheeks and expelled a long, withering breath. She'd tried on just half a dozen gowns and she hated all of them: Claudia's selection of blushing-bride wedding dresses, whether puffy meringue-style chiffon, or sleek, figure-hugging silk, were simply not her 'style'. On the other hand, the chique, simple haut-couture she had ordered herself, while stylish enough for an evening out, just didn't seem 'right' for the big occasion.

But she had to pick _something._ Claudia would be up any minute and she'd have a fashion emergency freak-out if she saw Sydney still dressed in her black leggings, figure-hugging vest and calf-high suede boots.

'Damn,' muttered Sydney as she heard the knock on the door. 'Okay, Claudia, I'm coming.'

When she opened the door, however, it was not the petite blonde. Instead, it was the dumpy, dour figure of Braingain.

'Uh, hullo,' stuttered Sydney. 'I wondered if we'd see you again!'

The elderly woman slipped past her into the room and, to Sydney's surprise, smiled at the array of dresses. 'Not quite the garments of a great adventuress!'

'Err, no, it's not quite me, is it?' said Sydney, slightly bewildered. 'Uh, we found the love potion, if that's what you're interested in.'

'I know,' said Braingain, stony-faced again. 'And you finally slew the evil Morholt and identified Tristan's sword. You did well, but your work is not yet finished. '

'Not finished? Well, I'm afraid it's going to have to be, at least for this morning. I've got to get married in the Great Hall in, uh,' Sydney glanced up at the clock, 'about half an hour!'

'Then time is plentiful! You did not finish the job – you found the potions, you did not find the rings!'

'Well you never exactly told me there were any to find!' retorted Sydney, now slightly exasperated as well as intrigued - she remembered Braingain's previous hint on the topic. 'So Tristan and Iseult were married?'

The smile returned: 'They married before they left Ireland, before Iseult was summoned to Cornwall as King Mark's bride, before the lady's silly maid servant accidentally put the potion in their wine, although she did her best to make amends…'

'The legend tells she took her mistress's place in King Mark's bed on their wedding night,' interjected Sydney thoughtfully. 'That is quite a sacrifice for a friend to make…'

'… and it meant that Tristan and Iseult's marriage was never annulled, neither in their bodies and hearts, or in the eyes of God.'

'Quite a sacrifice…and the rings would be quite a find,' murmured Sydney, her adrenalin already pumping for the hunt. 'But I've got to pick a darned wedding dress.'

Braingain shrugged. 'What would thrill your husband more? A dress that makes you uncomfortable or the wedding rings of Tristan and Iseult as a present on his special day?'

Sydney didn't even need to answer; she made straight for the door. 'Where do I begin?'

'Make the lovebirds sing,' came the husky answer. But when Sydney looked over her shoulder to respond, the old woman was nowhere to be seen.

……………………………………………………

'So,' began Nigel, peering over his cup of coffee at Karen, still rather awkward. 'If I may be so bold, you _did_ appear to be getting on rather well with Derek last night…'

'Ha, yeah, we had a laugh, fooling around,' she replied, rolling her eyes. 'He said he'd like to see more of me, but we'll see. I know Syd doesn't trust him…'

'Derek's a good fellow - when you get past all the macho posturing. Syd's a little hard on him. I know I'm in danger of sounding like my future spouse, but maybe you _should_ 'go with the flow' on that one.'

'I kind of _liked_ the macho posturing,' purred Karen. 'But don't expect to see us running down the aisle any time soon.'

'Goodness,' exclaimed Nigel, slamming down his cup. 'That reminds me. My friend Joel still isn't here and I haven't asked anybody else to be my Best Man. Do you think Derek might make it back in time?'

'Nope,' negated Karen. 'He sent his apologies, but he said there's no way he'll make it for the ceremony. François needed a lot of interrogating, apparently.'

'Poor Francois!' Despite his dislike of the Frenchman, Nigel emphasised a little. 'Derek is a great man to have in your corner, but you don't want to get on his wrong side, particularly when he's got you in his custody. Believe me, I should know…'

'Yeah? He kidnapped you once, didn't he? Well, all the more reason to treat the guy with caution.'

Nigel shrugged. 'There were a few misunderstandings, but we've been mates ever since. I would've liked him to be Best Man, but never mind. There'll be plenty of other people down soon, friends who go back a long way. I'll ask one of them.'

There was a silence as Nigel glanced hopefully around the room, and then Karen uttered the fateful words: 'Nigel, you should ask your brother.'

'Excuse me?' blurted Nigel. 'That's absolutely impossible. You know how I feel about him!'

'Yeah. And that's all the more reason you should ask him. He's desperate to do it, you know that.'

'I don't care if he's crawled trouserless over the Alps and back just for the privilege! He's never done anything for me! Nothing good, at any rate: he's stolen my girlfriends, snaffled my dream job at the British Museum from under my nose, forced me to stay a boarding school I hated - among _many_ other offences - and he's a snobbish, condescending, self-absorbed twit. No! I won't do it!'

'Oh Nigel,' sighed Karen, sounding so alarmingly like Sydney that she instantly commanded his attention. 'I think he's sorry, in his way - but you have to see it from his perspective. He is so obviously jealous of you - you're younger than him, cleverer than him, everyone adores you and you've achieved so much…'

'He's achieved enough,' spat Nigel bitterly. 'As if he'd let anyone forget it!'

'Yeah, he's a pain. But he cares for you really, deep down in his own, repressed kind of way. I think that's why he's so keen to be Best Man - he wants everything to be right between you.'

'Then why doesn't he apologise?'

'Because he can't, you know he can't. It's one of his weaknesses - some people just can't say sorry, even when guilt is tearing them apart. So it's up to you to be the strong one, Nigel.' She leaned in and whispered in his ear. 'There he is, coming into the dining room with Claudia now. Be a hero, Nigel, ask him. It would mean so much to him, to Claudia… and, for some reason, to me.'

'I never wanted to be a hero,' stated Nigel, heartfelt. 'All I ever wanted was a nice little teaching job.'

He kissed her once, lightly on the cheek, and rose to his feet. He never sensed her melt with long-subdued desire; he just saw the trusting, smiling facade.

'You're a very special girl, Karen,' he winked. 'One day, you're going to make a good man very happy. And now, if I _really_ must, I'm going to have a little word with my brother...'

………………………………….

'Make the lovebirds sing,' repeated Sydney to herself as she sprinted down the corridor back to the old castle. 'She must have been talking about the lovebirds on the bed-head. I'd better head back to Queen Tara's bower.'

Sydney kept running – time was of the essence - until she reached the bedchamber, and leapt straight onto the bed. She examined the lovebirds closely again, this time tapping the bulbous wood-carving: she detected a slightly hollow ring to it, but still no sign of how to get anything open.

Sydney returned to Brangain's clue: 'Birds sing to attract a mate,' she wondered to herself. 'But these two are already together. They also sing to defend their territory and to warn of danger. Danger… what would cause them danger?'

She turned her attention away from the lovebirds themselves to the carvings on the rest of the bed. However, the domestic donkeys and cattle displayed in the mediaeval scenes were of little threat to either bird or man, and the peasants themselves looked harmless enough, their expressions as vacant as their beasts of burden's. In frustration, Sydney left the bed and began to examine the faded tapestries which, too, appeared to portray little threat: Adam and Eve, cavorting naked in the Garden of Eden - or was it Tristan and Iseult, she wondered, alone in their woodland paradise? Soon enough, however, she found the chink of evil in the paradise she was seeking: the long-tongued snake, the green of its scaly skin faded to yellow, coiled around a gnarled, old apple tree.

Her gut twinging, Sydney hauled aside the heavy tapestry to examine the stone flagged wall underneath. She revealed a crude painting of a distinctive, red-bearded warrior: Morholt.

Sydney took a sharp breath, anticipation mingled with abhorrence. He was enough to scare both bird and man! But not Sydney Fox.

'You're going to help me this time,' she hissed. 'I'm not going to be late for my wedding on your account. Now what are you hiding?'

The ugly painting was in the middle of a stone slab, which protruded from the wall slightly. Sydney pushed it to no avail then, with some effort, she tried twisting it slightly. This time, she jumped at the sound of a loud, grinding and turned to discover that the whole of the back of the bed-head had swung inwards like a door. It revealed the entrance to a steep, down-sloping secret passage.

'So that's what you were keeping from me!' Excitement building, Sydney took her torch from her satchel, climbed through the opening, and clambered down the slope. It was then that the real fun began…

………………………………………

'But where is she?' wailed Claudia. Her makeup was perfect, her hair tumbled in exquisite ringlets, and her pink, puffball bridesmaid dress shimmered regally in the light like a chiffon marshmallow. 'It's not _just_ that she's got to pick, like, the most important dress she will ever wear, she's totally running out of time to get her hair and make-up done!'

Claudia cringed apologetically at the grumpy looking expert croupier and makeup artist she'd flown in especially from Paris. 'I'm sorry. I guess my friend does not realise the seriousness of the situation. It might have to be an express job... you can do that, right?'

'Maybe the bride has had second thoughts?' offered the hairdresser with a malicious smile. 'It won't be the first wedding I've been at where one of the 'happy couple' has bolted at the last minute, although it will be the first such failure I've been flown halfway round the world for!'

'No,' snapped Claudia. 'No way! I'm going to go and look for her. Karen – you'd better check on the guys. Make sure they're looking suitably gorgeous and that they're waiting at that alter!'

'Will do,' affirmed Karen. 'And I'll make sure they're not killing each other, too,' she thought wryly to herself as she slinked off down the corridor in her shiny, figure hugging, silk gown.

……………………………….

The guillotine-sharp axes of the booby trap swiped murderously across the tunnel. Sydney swayed to the side, leapt two foot in the air and then fell flat on her stomach, each time narrowly avoiding a fatal slice. She stilled the malicious contraption by jamming the torch-handle in its workings, a move that brought her a fraction of an inch away from a severed hand.

'That was close,' she breathed. It was then she heard the rumbling.

Jumping to her feet, Sydney tore off down the passageway, the large, stone rock, big enough to crush a horse, pounding on her heels like a juggernaut on the highway.

………………………………………………….

Karen tapped lightly on the back of the door: 'Everything okay there, guys?'

'Yes,' came Nigel's strained reply. 'Just peachy!'

She popped her head in to see that both Nigel and Preston were ready in their wedding attire. The colour scheme – light-grey jackets and trousers with wine-red waistcoats, and creamy cravats, had been chosen after a heated cross-Atlantic e-mail debate between her and Claudia - a debate which Claudia had predominantly won, as it was the scheme which matched her bridesmaid's dress best. It had been 'okayed' by a very tired Sydney and Nigel on their return from a hunt - they'd barely looked at the catalogue.

Still, if anybody could pull it off, Nigel could. Neatly groomed, cleanly shaven, and with his hair lightly gelled back, he looked great. And, fortunately - in Karen's opinion if not in Nigel's - Preston was about the same size as Joel and fitted perfectly the matching suit that had been ordered for the Best Man.

Nevertheless, she perceived the tense atmosphere from the other side of the threshold. Before she even stepped in, Nigel seized her by the arm and pulled her out into the corridor.

'I can't go through with this,' he hissed. 'Not only is he irritating the hell out of me already with his preaching about good dressing and wedding etiquette, I completely forgot about the Best Man's speech! I can't possibly let him stand up and talk to a roomful of people about me. It equates to professional, social, and probably _actual_ suicide!'

'Oh,' said Karen, wincing apologetically. 'I guess that _is_ a problem…but it's not like he's had much time to prepare. How good is he at impromptu speeches? "

Nigel smirked. 'That's a good point. He's not a bad public speaker but we both stutter like hell without notes. It could be quite humiliating! Ha! Or maybe we could just cancel the speeches, or something...how's Syd? I can't wait to see her, I bet she looks fantastic!'

Karen felt guilty again, especially as she realised that Nigel was talking particular fast. He was very nervous. 'Uh, I'm afraid I don't know,' she answered deliberately, straightening his cream-rose buttonhole before turning attention to his collar. 'She's kind of vanished.'

He quickly thanked her for the adjustment, and then said: 'Vanished? What do you mean?'

'Oh, I don't expect its anything serious,' dismissed Karen, taking a step back for a better view, assuring herself that Nigel looked suitably perfect. 'Claudia's gone to look for her. But, as far as we know, she still hasn't put her dress on.'

'Should I be worried?' pleaded Nigel.

Karen smiled and shook her head confidently. 'No, you know as well as I that she'll be there - sooner or later. Now,' she paused, and reached into a little pink purse, which was hanging from a chain of pearls in her hand. She brought out a familiar pouch. 'I'd better give these rings to Preston before another of Sydney's exes turns up to steal them. Then we should all head down to the Great Hall and wait for Sydney to fit us into her busy schedule.'

'Let's do that,' grinned Nigel, 'and Karen…'

'Yeah?'

He took her hand, and caressed her white-gloved fingers affectionately. 'You look amazing.'

She pulled away her hand quickly, but smiled affectionately. 'Thanks. And Claudia looks a dream - but I'm pretty sure it's not going to be enough to upstage the star of the show - whatever she's wearing!'

…………………………………………………….

The pit in the floor was a godsend, and Sydney hurled herself into it seconds before the bolder, gravity on its side, ground her into the dust. She winced through racing breaths at the crunch of bones beneath her as she landed, almost grateful that her torch was left far behind her. She remembered only too well the sight of a crushed, distorted skeleton; the feel of the snapped and jagged bones, digging through the fabric of her leggings into her skin, was nearly as horrific. Even the great Sydney Fox, however, nearly screamed as she heard a scuffling noise and a soft, little body brushed against her thigh.

Sydney sprang into the air, smothering her revulsion: she may be a relic hunter, but this was no time to be rolling about with the dead and the rats. She was getting married in fifteen minutes and she had a really cool wedding present to find…

She heard a loud crash, as the bolder hit the end of the passage, some way off. 'There can't be much in that direction, then,' she murmured and headed back up the slope.

Once she'd had retrieved her torch, she found what she wanted quickly: painted across the ceiling of the tunnel, was a crude depiction of a snakelike dragon – its colours still vibrant after many centuries in the darkness. 'Its just like the one Tristan slew to win the hand of Iseult?' murmured Sydney. 'You'd make any birds sing. But how?'

She racked her brain for the legend, wishing the she had Nigel's assistance. Fortunately, she recalled that when Tristan slew the malevolent beast, he cut out its poisonous tongue with his trusty sword, an act that nearly fatally poisoned him, but destroyed the beast for good.

'I need the sword!' cried Sydney. 'But it's back in our bedroom now…damn, I'm going to cut this one fine…'

…………………………

Nigel stood at the altar in the chapel-come-mediaeval-Great-Hall, his face aching with an increasingly fixed grin.

Practically everyone he knew - and more than a few people he didn't - were there, desperate to meet and congratulate him. Everyone from Trinity had made the trip, even the Dean, as had Sydney's hundreds of other friends and fans from other universities, and, of course, her numerous relic hunting allies. Even a few of her more likeable rivals had found their way in anyhow. Besides Stewie, Dallas was there. Still clad in his leather jacket and Indiana Jones-style headgear, he'd given Nigel a particular a heavy handshake and flashed him a toothy smile, telling him he was 'a very lucky boy.'

Then there were the 'exes'. Alan, Grey and numerous others were there, keen not to lose their friendship with Sydney, all 'grinning and bearing it'. Nigel wondered whether they hated him and hoped none of them had hitherto undetected homicidal tendencies. He also couldn't help considering that one of them may have abducted Syd, or locked her up somewhere, explaining her absence. She wasn't totally infallible - he knew that only too well! Overall, he decided the only small mercy was that Reiner hadn't been asked. Now that truly would have given him nightmare flashbacks…

'I can't wait to see my little Scootchie,' beamed Randall, patting Nigel so hard on the back that it nearly sent him flying. 'I'm just glad she's finally found the right guy to take care of her, make her a little bit less reckless. I was no good - I positively encouraged her!'

'I don't think anything _I_ say has much influence,' said Nigel honestly. 'Err, hadn't you better get to the door, sir? She'll be here soon.'

'You think?' said Randall. 'On big occasions, my daughter always tends to be fashionably late!' He gave Nigel another healthily bear-like pat on the shoulder, and wandered up the aisle nevertheless.

'At least that's a comfort,' thought Nigel, as he watched Randall go, wondering if he should have confided in the father that Sydney had sort of _vanished_. Well as he knew his future wife, he couldn't imagine quite what was going through her mind this morning, or what she might have become embroiled in to cause her absence. Her unpredictability was one of the things he loved about her but, this morning, it was just stressful.

Randall's taking his place at the door, apparently awaiting the imminent arrival of his daughter, was taken by most of the congregation on cue. Everyone took their seats. The happy chattering died down. The only people still in motion were Karen and Claudia, who Nigel could see hovering in the doorway, twitchy and anxious. They obviously hadn't found her.

'She is cutting it a bit fine,' observed Preston, tapping his watch officiously. 'I wonder what's keeping her? Maybe she's having second thoughts, eh?'

These words, accompanied by a nudge and a wink, were obviously meant in jest but they annoyed Nigel immensely, and aggravated his worry. He bit his tongue, and said nothing.

………………………………….

Sydney flung herself through the entrance of the secret passage, sliding down the slope on her bottom for the sake of speed. With the shining sword in her hand, she faced the painted dragon. Then, with unique prowess, she looped it through the air, striking the very root of the dragon's long, curling tongue. The sword clanged noisily against the stone, but its fading echo was mingled with the strangest of noises: a high-pitched, shimmering, twitter, like the song of birds…

Sydney gasped. Two little golden rings rolled noisily down the slope - released from an apparently un-openable compartment within the little birds on the inward opening bedhead - and landed at her feet.

'The wedding rings of Tristan and Iseult!'

She scooped them up into the palm of her hand, and began to run. She knew the clock must be striking 10 o'clock - yeah, she'd cut this one _very_ fine…

…………………………………

The clock was now on two minutes past 10, and Nigel could feel the perspiration trickling down the back of his neck; his collar was starting to feel very tight.

There was a buzz of anxious voices in the hall, although few believed Sydney would desert Nigel at the altar. Many were sitting back, smiles on their faces, expecting a suitably grandiose entrance. Nevertheless, the 'exes' were starting to exchange smug glances, and the two bridesmaids appeared distraught. There was now a distinct smudginess about Claudia's perfect eye makeup. Even Randall, beside them – the girls' smallness of stature making him look more of a giant than ever - was starting to look slightly worried.

A leaden gloom began to take possession of Nigel spirits when the priest tapped him on the shoulder: 'The lady was sure she wanted to through with this, was she?'

Nigel opened his mouth and shut it again, much in the style of a goldfish. Of course she was sure! But he couldn't find the means to answer he man – suddenly all he could think was all the reasons that Morholt had told him he shouldn't marry her. The poltergeist may be gone, but maybe his reasons remained – he simply wasn't worthy of her! So François wasn't 'the one' either, but did that mean that _he _could give her everything she needed.

He darted a desperately look across the room, and accidentally caught the eye of Grey - Sydney had once been so sure he was Mr Right. What gave him, Nigel, the right to bind himself to her, if he still wasn't sure he could make her the happiest? Maybe it would be better if she really didn't turn up…

Nigel was snapped back to his senses by Preston's crowing voice: 'Please excuse my brother,' he was telling the priest. 'He can be a little inarticulate at the strangest of moments. But we're quite sure, thank you. Sydney _will_ come - no two people have ever been so in love. Everything is quite under control!'

Nigel gawped at his brother, who beamed back at him with confidence. 'That's right, isn't it?'

'Uh, quite right,' stammered Nigel. 'Thanks…I think.'

At that moment, the expectant atmosphere was exploded by the sound of pounding footsteps, a squeal from Claudia, and then a collective gasp from the gathered well-wishers.

Clad in her black relic hunting gear - her satchel over her shoulder and a shining silver sword in her hand - Sydney Fox was halfway up the aisle before she realised she'd pushed straight past her bridesmaids and father. They were staring at her, gobsmacked, from the door.

'Uh, what are you waiting for, guys?'

She sprinted back to the start, slipped her arms through Randall's and started over, as a somewhat confused string quartet began to play the 'Arrival of the Queen of Sheba.' A shower of delighted applause drowned them out. Sydney Fox's friends knew she would deliver the goods _and_ entertainment - even on her wedding day.

'Wagner's 'Ride of the Valkyries' would have been more appropriate,' muttered Preston to Nigel, then added in an I-told-you-so voice: 'I knew she'd come.'

'So did I,' smiled Nigel, turning and looking over his shoulder to watch his bride approach him. Covered in dust, cobwebs in her hair, and with the relic still in her hand, she was the most beautiful, ravishing sight he had ever laid eyes upon.

As her dancing eyes met his, there wasn't a doubt in his mind. They'd be together, if not physically, then spiritually, through this life and the next.

**Thanks for reading. Hope it wasn't too sappy ;) Please, please review - and there is a tiny bit more to come.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimers: as before**

**Thank you so much to everybody who reviewed on the last chapter. Love you all :)**

'It couldn't have gone any better,' grinned Sydney, one arm wrapped around her new husband, the other hand clasping a glass of champagne.

'Nope,' agreed Nigel, downing the last of his drink and beginning to feel particularly relaxed. 'It was perfect! If you hadn't arrived late with the wedding rings of Tristan and Iseult, then Preston would have looked even more of an idiot for leaving our ones in the bedroom … not that I have a problem with Preston looking a fool, but I'm kind of glad we use the ones we did.'

'Maybe he's got another purpose in mind for the Aztec gold bands.' Sydney nodded playfully in the direction of Preston and Claudia, who were nibbling canapés together in a plant-filled, adjoining conservatory. Claudia had changed out of her pink puffball bridesmaid dress. She was now wearing a particularly revealing cream, lace number; the gauze in all but the most important places was as thin and finely spun as a spider's web. Both of them were laughing unnecessarily loudly.

'I'd _still_ rather not think about that,' started Nigel, glancing over and then balking at the incriminating proximity of his brother to Claudia's near naked flesh. Sydney's arched eyebrow caused him to relent a little: 'Well, maybe I'll get used to it.'

'I think you might.' With a wide, laughing smile, she flicked back a strand of Nigel's hair, which was wandering carelessly down his forehead towards his eyes, having escaped from his perfectly groomed coiffure. 'You look gorgeous, you know that?'

'Isn't that what _I'm_ supposed to say?' asked Nigel, returning the favour by smudging away the lingering traces of centuries-old dirt from her cheekbone. 'Because you do. You look fantastic – an absolute dream!'

Sydney exploded into a giggle: 'I'm not so sure. Sorry if I disappointed you a bit. I guess you want to see me come down the aisle in whi…'

'I meant what I said,' interrupted Nigel adamantly. 'I would have been disappointed if you'd bowed to pressure and put on some silly gown that wasn't 'you'! I wanted to marry Sydney Fox, and that's who I married. Seeing you run into the chapel, sword in hand was one of the most wonderful moments in all my life…well, I had a brief flashback about the first time we met and, for a second, I thought you were going to hurl Tristan's sword at my ear - impale the priest or something - but that passed. You were fabulous!' He leaned in close and whispered in her ear. 'And now I just can't wait to have you all to myself…'

'I can't wait to get you out of those lovely clothes,' teased Sydney in reply, warm breath on his neck making him tingle with excitement. 'It's almost a shame we invited so many people…'

'You asked most of them!' retorted Nigel. 'When I proposed, I didn't think we were going to last the night, remember, let alone have to organise this bloody thing!'

Sydney shrugged, coiffing the last of her champagne. 'I love my friends. I guess I wanted to share this moment with them all, even if I don't want to share you…hey, there's Angie! I've still got so much catching up to do with her.'

'You'd better go, then, my beautiful wife.' Nigel hugged her tight before reluctantly unravelling his arm from her waist. 'Just promise me that we won't be as late to bed tonight as we were yesterday…'

'Oh, I promise,' purred Sydney, peeping seductively over her shoulder as she went. 'I hope you're not still feeling any of the after-effects of yesterday's, uh, accidents.'

'Nothing another fill-up at the finger buffet we won't fix… then I'll be ready for anything. Even another hunt!'

'Don't worry Nigel, I've got something even more exciting planned…'

He watched her go, weaving between the well-wishers, smiling and dropping quick, witty one-liners, and wondering if he should run after her to remove a persistent cobweb that he spotted hanging from her lycra-clad behind.

'You're a lucky man, Nigel!'

Nigel jumped at his brother's voice, booming behind his shoulder; he hadn't even seen Preston leave the conservatory, or Claudia's side.

'I certainly am,' answered Nigel, offering a hurried, half smile. 'I'm just off to the finger buffet. Doesn't Claudia need, err, a top-up of sparkling or something? The drinks are on the other side of the room…'

'Yes, I'm sure she'll refilling in a few minutes but she's popped out to change her dress. She bought seven bridesmaid dresses for the occasion and at least a dozen reserves. So far she is only on her fourth change…'

'I hope you know what you're taking on!' interjected Nigel. 'Claudia is, well…Claudia! She's into fashion, trendy music, boys with fast cars. You wear tweeds, listen to Tchaikovsky and drive a Volvo! I can hardly see you being dragged along to see the Pussycat Dolls, or her getting excited when there's an all-day performance of Wagner's Ring cycle at the London Opera house!'

'_Au contraire_ - Claudia knows every word to Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, and she just told me that she adores European classical music. And I rather admire those Pussycat Dolls…'

'Yes, no doubt you do!' replied Nigel, smiling sardonically. 'But she only knows Romeo and Juliet because she had a crush on Leonardo DiCaprio - and by European classical music she means Abba!'

'Uh, yes, well - those Swedish songsters had very fine tunes and harmonies. Comparable to Mozart, some might say.'

Nigel rolled his eyes. 'Well, don't say I didn't warn you! I'm off to the buffet… I'll see you later.'

To Nigel's consternation, Preston followed him. 'I still don't see why it shouldn't work between Claudia and I,' continued the older brother, 'just like you and Sydney.'

'Yes, but we've got our love of history and many other interests in common… besides, we always had this 'thing' between us…this feeling…'

'You mean you fancied her from the moment you laid eyes on her? I don't blame you, so did I! But with Claudia it was different. It felt like meeting my destiny, my fate. There was a strike of lightening through my heart!'

'Please don't mention lightning,' grimaced Nigel, piling his plate high with quiche and vegetable samosas. 'And what's this rubbish about fate and destiny? You're starting to sound like her...'

'Well, there you go!' beamed Preston, triumphantly. 'I think I could develop quite an academic interest in the history of the occult and astrology – we've something in common after all! But I didn't come over here to talk about _my_ love-life. I wanted to say something to _you_, Nigel.'

Nigel stopped dead, his hand quivering inches above an enticing plate of sausage rolls. The notion of Preston wanting to 'say something' stimulated a frisson of dread. He could not think of one incident in his life when such an announcement didn't mean something bad was about to happen, or already had happened, or that Preston had made a decision that effected him which he absolutely hated. Despite its absurdity, he vaguely wondered if Preston had signed him up for three more years back at that despised school.

He swallowed hard: 'What is it, Preston?'

'I…uh, I wanted to say thank you.'

Nigel nearly dropped his plate and turned abruptly to his brother, highly flustered. 'What did you just say?'

He could now see how hard Preston was finding it to spit out the words. The elder brother had gone rather pink in the face: 'I…um, wanted to thank you for asking me to be your Best Man. I know we've had our differences, but… it means a lot to me. It was a stupendous gesture on your part and I hope maybe we can…um, put things behind us a little…and move on?'

Nigel gawped at him for a moment. What was that supposed to be? Some sort of apology? It certainly didn't actually contain the word apology. Nevertheless, he couldn't quite blot out Karen's words – Preston simply _couldn't_ say sorry, she'd said, so _he_ had to be the strong one. Barely repressing a scowl, he gazed down at his pile of food.

Then Preston offered Nigel his hand. Startled, Nigel looked up and their eyes met for the first time.

'Uh, okay then…' Nigel mumbled words poured from his mouth even as he mutely cursed both Claudia and Karen for bewitching his conscience. Somehow, though, the limp handshake felt right.

'Good, good!' jollied Preston, puffing out his cheeks in a relieved manner as Nigel pulled away. 'I just wanted you to know that I appreciate it, that's all. Maybe I can return the favour someday, eh? If Claudia and I, you know, tie the knot?'

Nigel smiled clownishly and stuffed a sausage roll in his mouth. 'You might want to rethink that when you've seen her shoes,' he suggested between his chews. 'She's got more pairs than Imelda Marcos. You're going to need a bigger house…'

…………………..

'Hey, Claudia!'

Syd was leaning forward into a large, gilded mirror in the plush, ladies washroom, touching up her lip-gloss, when her blonde friend entered. Claudia was now wearing a champagne-coloured minidress, adorned with a single bow that jutted out jauntily to the right of her tiny waist.

'Hey, Syd!' bubbled Claudia. Bustling over, she peered in, examining Sydney's handiwork. 'That plum shade is _so_ you - but I still can't believe you didn't wear any of those gorgeous dresses. I mean, I'm sure _you're_ only going to do this once - and you'd have looked totally amazing!'

'Yeah, but I'd never have made it back with the relic in time wearing all those ridiculous skirts.' Sydney paused, smoothing her lips together and wincing slightly as she imagined the horrific scene that might have ensued had she got petticoats stuck in one of those flying blades. Then she added: 'Besides, I think you and Karen do the 'pretty in pink' thing well enough without me. Is that, err, another change of dress?'

'Yea!' Claudia did a twirl. 'The bow is just to die for!'

'It looks great,' smiled Sydney. 'So, what does _Preston_ think of your outfits?'

Claudia scrunched her nose, visibly shimmering with happiness. 'He says he adores them, like he adores me! Isn't he just the most perfect guy ever? I mean, Nigel is a hottie and everything, but I can't believe you never told me what a total gentleman his brother was. I'm through with bad boys, and fast cars, and all that garbage. From now on, I'm going to be the perfect little housewife for Preston Bail…'

'Woah!' butted in Sydney. 'This is all a bit _too_ fast! I mean, I'm happy for you, I hope it works out, but you to again have some serious 'getting to know each other' business to do before you decide to become a _housewife_!'

'London housewives shop, right? I'm kind of bored of Paris, and I'm thinking Bond Street, Harrods, Harvey Nichols…'

'Yeah, Claudia, I'm sure London housewives shop! But there's a little bit more to it than that. Besides, Preston is a very charming guy, but he can be unreliable and even vindictive. You should talk to Nigel about him…err, actually, maybe that isn't such a good idea!'

'Don't you want me to be happy?' pouted Claudia.

'Yes!' countered Sydney, forcefully seizing both of her friend's hands. 'That is exactly what I want. You've had three failed marriages in the last three years - I don't want this to be the fourth! Just…take care, that's all. It's healthy to have doubts - believe me, I still have them, although I know in my heart that Nigel is only guy for me. '

The pout relented slightly. Sydney experienced a pang of guilt about the mournful quality she'd introduced into those sparkling, blue eyes, then instantly felt better as two slender arms pulled her in for a hug. 'Okay, I'll take this one slowly. But it just _feels_ so different to the others. I can't help getting excited - he's going to make me happy, Syd. I know it…'

'Your friend is wise!'

Claudia squeaked and even Sydney turned, startled, as the oddly-accented voice emanated from the other side of the toilet cubicles.

'Braingain?' ventured Sydney.

'Oh, hey!' greeted Claudia cheerily, as the quaintly dressed old woman stepped into their sightline at the other end of the room. 'You _so_ need to get some of those cute shoes with kitten heels I was telling you about. On these wooden floors, people will hear you coming then you won't freak them out like you do when you're creeping about in those ugly, old slipper things.'

Brangrain nodded respectfully at the fashion guru-ess. 'I will have a look online, as you suggest, my child. Now, you must listen to the great huntress. Even fate needs wise handling.'

'Yeah, I know she's right,' admitted Claudia. 'I'll be cautious, even with Preston. So, when can we go try out your Ouija board? I just can't wait to see those amazing tarot cards you told me about!'

'You're welcome back at my cottage whenever you like, my dear…'

'Hold on a moment,' interjected Sydney, raising one hand in a halting motion. 'Let me get this straight. You're _not_ a ghost?'

'Brangain? Oh, no way, Syd! I can't believe you fell for it.' Claudia turned to Brangrain, visibly impressed. 'You're good! Nobody usually puts one over Sydney!'

'So you're a guide after all?' asked Sydney.

Brangain looked a little guilty. 'No, great huntress, I'm afraid I'm not…'

'She's the tea-lady!' tittered Claudia. 'I mean, _really_ a tea-lady. She makes the tea for the castle staff! However, she's also the best psychic I've ever met. I sensed that as soon as I met her - and I've tried quite a few!'

'I can also proudly say that I know more about this place, and its history, then any of those charlatan guides,' added the elder lady. 'And my name really _is_ Braingain – my family _have_ been connected with the castle for generations. Maybe that's why the originalBraingain spoke to me through my Ouija board one day asking me to find the relics of Tristan and Iseult and puts the evil Morholt to rest once and for all. I knew that was beyond me… so when I heard the great Sydney Fox was coming, I thought it was time that I took up a little guiding. I lied about my job, I admit, but I never said I was a ghost!'

Sydney shook her head as she laughed. 'Okay, Claudia. I admit defeat. I might have a sixth sense for relic hunting, but when it comes to certain aspects of the supernatural I bow to the superior powers of both of you!'

'I apologise if I unduly alarmed anybody,' said Brangrain humbly.

'Oh, don't worry. I think your friend Morlholt was more to blame in that department. Look - now I know you're, uh, alive, it would be great if you could join us for our wedding breakfast. Nigel would be fascinated in anything more you know about the legend… although he might find it a bit difficult to cite your Ouija board in a

conference paper!'

…………………………….

'I don't trust that old dear,' whispered Nigel in Sydney's ear, as he took his place next to Sydney at the top table. 'Okay, so bit of psychic power might explain a lot of the things she knows - and I'm not uninterested - but how do we know she didn't summon up that poltergeist deliberately for malicious purposes? And what about that scream, the one that lured Preston and I into the dungeon? It wasn't Claudia, so what was it?'

'I don't know,' admitted Sydney. 'It could have been fate, Morholt – or maybe the real Braingain. But my instincts told me from the start that our unofficial guide was a force for good. I'm happy to leave it at that.'

Nigel scowled at her, unconvinced. 'I hope she doesn't start summoning up evil spirits halfway through the wedding breakfast…'

'Hey, why so cranky?' asked Sydney, squeezing his knee under the able. 'We found several relics, we've had a great wedding, and we've still got a lot of fun to come tonight…'

'I don't quite know,' confessed Nigel. 'But I have this huge sense of foreboding…'

'I'll keep my eye open for any more plummeting candelabras or axe wielding poltergeist's,' promised Sydney, a mischievous glint in her eyes. 'Believe me, I want you in working order. But, anyway, how did it go with Preston? Claudia said he popped over to have a word…'

'Oh, not bad. Quite well, I guess. I suppose he's making an effort, but I don't think I'll ever _quite_ trust him.' Hurriedly changing the subject, he queried: 'Err, were Karen and Derek originally together on the seating plan?'

Sydney cast her eyes across the room, to where the government agent and her secretary were getting very friendly. 'I think Karen might have done some tweaking for her own purposes. Still, if they get any closer they're not going to need more than one seat, anyway…'

Sydney trailed off as Randall, seated on his daughter's side, wrapped the table authoritatively with his knuckles, rose to his feet and began to welcome the guests to the meal.

'Oh God,' hissed Nigel. 'Its time for the speeches! What with everything, I haven't even thought about it since before the ceremony!'

'Don't worry. All you have to do is thank everyone. We'll do it together.' Sydney murmured as quietly as she could, so as not to upstage her dad.

'It's not me I'm concerned about. It's Preston!'

'But he's had no time to prepare. Karen said you weren't worried.'

'I am now!'

'And first,' announced Randall. 'I'd very much like to introduce you to the Best Man, brother of the groom, and now brother-in-law of my beautiful daughter: Preston Bailey!'

There was a round of applause and Claudia cheered loudly as Preston stood up confidently, thanking Randall for his introduction. Nigel squeezed Sydney's hand so tight she began to fear for the circulation of blood in her fingers.

As calmly as a seasoned professional, Preston pulled a thick wodge of folded, A4 paper out of the inner pocket of his jacket, covered with neat, eminently legible handwriting.

'How…how…how?' blustered Nigel, glowering angrily at his brother. 'I only asked you to be Best Man two hours ago! How the hell did you have time to write all that?'

'You never were a very good boy scout, little brother,' replied Preston, from behind his hand. 'Fortunately, I was and I wrote this last month. Always be prepared!'

He then turned to the audience and announced loudly: 'It will be a great pleasure to share with you some amusing anecdotes about the man I affectionately know as Podge…'

'I'm going to kill him,' muttered Nigel, as the whole room roared - particularly the 'exes' - expectant of a marvellous entertainment.

'It'll be fine,' replied Sydney. 'We're more of a team than ever now. Whatever we do, we do it together. And we can start with a little act of murder…'

THE END

… **at least for now! I could probably have kept this little saga on for longer - and I'm sure Preston deserves his comeuppance - but I've wound it up because there are other stories I want to get on with, including my alternative universe challenge fic. **

**I hope you've enjoyed it, and please review. There might just be more one-day :)**

**As always, thanks to absolutely everybody who stayed with the story right to the bitter end, reviewers, alerters and readers ;)**


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